


Sun-Drenched Existential Dread

by rayemars



Series: Close to Home [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Consensual Kink, Curses, Gen, Hijacking, Horror, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Minor Character Death, Minor Violence, Multi, Non-Sexual Submission, Pinching, Time Travel, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-12-01 22:02:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 42,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20912684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rayemars/pseuds/rayemars
Summary: It's the spooky season! Have some short stories.1: Sometimes the zombie apocalypse is a thing.2: Sometimes you're a minor character in someone else's Live Die Repeat.3: Sometimes you just get cursed.





	1. They Are Night Zombies!! They Are Neighbors!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the person who left a review for Midsommer on IMDb that included the phrase "sun-drenched existential dread;" that kickstarted these three vague ideas into actual stories I could fit under an umbrella term.  
~

For the first two hours after the outbreak began, Scrappy wasn't aware of it. He didn't watch American news channels anymore. When it began spreading on the first day, he was watching a movie on the couch with his dog.

The first time he found out that something was wrong was when he got text messages from Swoops and then Parse at almost the same time. Swoops told him to pack all his essential shit in a bag and to make sure his door was locked until Swoops texted that it was him and Parse knocking on it. Parse told him to pack clothes and non-perishables and his dog's food and all the ammo he had, and to wear his gun and to put Belka's sturdiest collar and leash on her.

Scrappy texted back _?????_ to both of them. Parse didn't respond; Swoops wrote _We're on our way_

Scrappy paused the movie and started packing anyway, because Parse and Swoops weren't the kind of guys to pull a mean prank on him, even if that's what the texts sounded like. There must have been **something** going on.

*

Later, when things had stabilized and were shifting back to normal, they said the outbreak started in Utah, in that city that got all the fallout from Nevada's nuclear testing back in the 1950s-80s.

Scrappy was one of the few Great Basin survivors who'd made it out, and he was still under military quarantine. He didn't know if he should believe the news or not. He didn't want to be gullible, not about this. Swoops might have known if it sounded believable. Parse would have.

Scrappy was stuck in quarantine, because Kyiv didn't want to repatriate him. They suspected he was an asymptomatic carrier of "the American plague," although the Ukrainian diplomat who talked to him through a phone and a foot of steel and plastic said it more kindly than that. He told Scrappy that the most honorable thing he could do for his parents and sister and extended family was to remain in the U.S., to make certain that he didn't accidentally infect them or his fellow countrymen by returning home.

But the U.S. didn't want him. Scrappy didn't have a green card, just a working visa; and the hockey club he used to play for was gone. But they couldn't deport him, because most places were rejecting flights and ships from the U.S. now. Mexico had taken over the wall and was shooting anything that came within range, and even Canada had become militant about defending its borders with lethal force drones. Nobody had heard any news from Hawaii or Alaska since the outbreak started spreading east and flights began getting grounded.

So Scrappy stayed in quarantine, eating two meals a day in solitary confinement and talking whenever he could with the one guard who snuck him extra food because she used to be a Colorado Avalanche fan but she couldn't afford to be picky about what hockey players she liked any more.

The NHL players' pool was so small, compared to the rest of the population. A few hundred of them, max; more, if the feeder leagues were counted. Scrappy didn't know if he was the only one left. He hoped not. There were lots of guys out east--the outbreak couldn't have spread that far.

But the guard told him she hadn't heard any official news from the NHL yet. Abby said everybody was still calculating their death tolls, and paranoid that another outbreak might erupt. A lot of people were still missing and maybe just in bunkers or out deep in the country.

*

When Swoops and Parse picked him up the afternoon of the first day, they definitely didn't look like they were pulling a prank. Swoops was carrying that longsword he used for one of his exercise classes that Parse was always chirping him for. Parse had his back to the wall and kept looking up and down the hallway.

"What's going on?" Scrappy asked.

"--Haven't you heard the news?" Swoops said in disbelief.

Scrappy shook his head.

"Not the time," Parse interrupted, still watching both ends of the hall. "Get to the car. You packed?"

"Yeah," Scrappy said. He picked up his duffel and the sack of dog food sitting by the door and whistled for Belka.

*

They headed for the Aces' clubhouse, because it was first nature. Someone was almost always there.

As Parse was pulling into the parking lot, Swoops said, "...What's with the doors?"

Scrappy was sitting in the backseat, holding onto Belka and trying to keep her from shoving her nose against the door of Parse's cat's crate, because Purrs was already curled up in the far corner and growling lowly any time Belka barked or moved or panted. He tried to tilt over enough to look between the front seats, but it was hard to do with an armful of dog. "What's wrong?"

The front glass doors **did** look weird: there was something dark smeared on them.

Parse wrenched the wheel to the side and gunned the engine, peeling them out of the parking lot.

"Shit!" Swoops yelled, clutching the grip bar above the door and fumbling with his sword. Belka yelped in distress as she tumbled over into Scrappy's lap; Purrs started making barfing noises as his crate slid forward and tipped into the gap behind Parse's seat. "_Hey!_"

"What are you doing?" Scrappy demanded, trying to pet Belka calmer as she tucked her tail between her legs and shoved her face into his arm. He reached out and pulled Purrs' crate back onto the seat; Purrs miaowed, loud and pitiful. "Somebody could be in there."

"Maybe they were," Parse said, voice flat as he swung out onto the road. Scrappy grabbed at Purrs' crate when it started to slide again, and tightened his grip on Belka.

"Shit," Swoops said again, but this time he sounded horrified. "Parse, we have to see if anybody's still--"

"Shut up an' lemme concentrate," Parse interrupted, pulling hard into the left lane and barely avoiding a car coming up behind them.

*

When they got to Swoops' house and pulled into his garage and the door had thunked shut behind them, Parse opened the drivers' door and then threw up onto the concrete.

"Fuck," Swoops said, but he reached out and rubbed Parse's back. "I can't believe you didn't kill us."

Parse made a noise like he tried to laugh; but then he threw up a little more instead.

"Hey, Scraps, can you take Belka and Purrs inside?" Swoops asked, looking back at him as he kept rubbing Parse's back. "They probably need to chill out."

"Okay," Scrappy said, because he didn't know how to help Parse, who still had his eyes shut and was gripping the edges of the door with white knuckles as he hyperventilated. Scrappy picked up Purrs' crate and opened his door, urging Belka out into the garage. He took them inside as Parse struggled to get out of his seatbelt, and tried not to look at the scraped paint and fresh dents on Parse's car.

*

Swoops turned on the house alarm as soon as all three of them were inside. And then he had to turn it off again long enough to go back into the garage and fish an old atlas out from the gap between Parse's car's front console and the passenger seat.

*

Scrappy wound up spending most of the next few hours petsitting, trying to calm Belka down as she went tearing through the house and to coax Purrs out from inside the bedsprings that the cat had somehow managed to wedge himself into.

Swoops went through his fridge and pantry and filled up every sealable container he could find with water. Parse poured over the atlas and drew on it in pencil, and started swearing quietly and evenly when Swoops' wifi went down and then the cellular networks overloaded.

Between all that, they managed to fill Scrappy in on the current news of the outbreak.

The early news turned out to be about 80% false. They never would have acted like they were safer in daylight if they'd known better. But that was all they had to go on at the time.

Scrappy tried to call his mom and then his sister; but he couldn't get through on his cell phone, and Swoops didn't have a landline.

*

Five hours after the outbreak started spreading, Scrappy and Parse and Swoops were on the road north out of Las Vegas, taking backroads through the mountains toward Idaho.

They left in Swoops' SUV, with their bags and some coats and a toolbox and all the food and water and pet food and the dog and cat jumbled up in the back. Scrappy kept his box of ammo held tight between his feet and petted Belka distractedly as she laid her head in his lap and whimpered.

It was starting to look worse out. Parse drove around abandoned cars and over medians and scraped up the SUV by going between cars to push down the road. Swoops only grumbled occasionally, with a muttered, "It has to _get_ us there, Parse" or a resigned "My suspension...."

Scrappy tried to chuckle when he did, because he knew Swoops was trying to lighten the mood. Parse just kept watching the road with a hyper-focused expression.

They really should've been arrested. But the radio said most of the police and the SWAT and CERT teams were east, trying to blockade I-15, where the outbreak seemed to be stemming from.

*

Parse detoured once, into a shooting complex. He and Scrappy broke in while Swoops watched the car, and they went through all the guns and ammo still available. Scrappy tried not to think about how he was going to end up in jail and maybe deported if this all turned out to be way more minor than everybody was saying.

They weren't the first ones there. Or else the complex's staff had taken a lot of equipment before closing the place. Parse told Scrappy to take everything he could use, and then busted into the archery equipment.

"I can't use that," Scrappy told Parse, as Parse was collecting two compound bows and all the arrows he could find. He could use rifles thanks to summers he'd spent on his grandparents' farm; and he'd gotten a handgun after he was drafted by Boston, after one of the guys he knew from the Ukrainian-Canadian community who'd played for its feeder team in Providence for a year had warned him about the mob activity down there. Scrappy figured shotguns weren't going to be too difficult to figure out, but bows were something else.

"I can," Parse replied.

"Okay," Scrappy said. He went back to collecting loose ammo from the floor beneath the broken-into shelves. It wasn't the weirdest thing he'd learned that day.

*

Scrappy knew how to shoot from spending summers on his grandparents' farm as a kid. He kept up with it when he and his family all went back there for a couple weeks each summer to spend time together.

Parse knew how to shoot from growing up in rural upstate New York, and one of his uncles had taught him how to bow-hunt as a kid. He hadn't kept up with it; but the physics and environmental calculations were close enough to how he played hockey that he got used to it again quickly, since the alternative was potentially death.

Swoops had grown up in north Toronto's Lawrence Hill neighborhood, and the athletics club his family were members of didn't have any shooting-based facilities. But there'd been a historical European martial arts club there that he'd been in as a kid, which was how he gotten his first longsword. He'd gotten back into HEMA when Edmonton transferred him to the Aces, although he'd started developing his own workouts by then. Parse gave him endless shit for being a LARPer.

It was the longsword's fault. Swoops had brought a real one with him when they headed north: an actual sword that could actually hurt infected people, and kill them when the situation started devolving to that. He knew how to use it.

But it wasn't like Scrappy's rifles or Parse's compound bow. It wasn't a long range weapon. If Swoops had to use it, he was already close to infected people.

Parse and Scrappy tried to teach Swoops how to shoot, but they couldn't afford to waste ammo. Everything started going bad so fast. People got so vicious so quickly that by the end of the second day, it was hard to tell if any stranger they met was early-stage infected or just scared or selfish or hateful.

The three of them started assuming the worst, because that gave them a higher chance of staying alive. Scrappy didn't like hurting people, and he hated killing them; but he wasn't going to put Parse or Swoops at risk.

*

The first evening and night went by in a blur of two-lane roads. Parse had drawn a route that took them up to Idaho using as few highways and major roads as possible. It avoided the forest in the center of Nevada entirely, and added hours and gallons to the trip as a result.

At first, they stopped for gas whenever they saw it, because it was hard to know when the next station would show up. Cellular data still worked off and on during the first day, but Google couldn't map any routes for all the small towns they were driving through.

*

The first day, things were still kind of normal as they headed north. Gas stations still accepted credit, and worked.

*

After Scrappy had stayed healthy in quarantine for over a month, they eventually put a small TV in his cell. It played the two streaming services that had re-established after the outbreak. Scrappy left it on constantly, even when he was sleeping, so he could hear human voices.

He tried to keep up his workouts, at least as much as he could in the confined space with no equipment and a really reduced calorie intake. He dozed a lot.

When he was first processed into the quarantine, they took everything, from Swoops' SUV and the supplies down to Scrappy's driver's license and his clothes. But afterward, they gave him back a few things: his ID, Parse's watch, and Belka's rabies vaccine tag when he asked for it. They told him they'd burned her collar, along with his clothes and the receipts Parse had written on and all the other stuff made from permeable materials. They wouldn't give back his phone.

Sometimes Scrappy would close his eyes and jingle the tag and pretend that Belka was here too, although he would've felt bad about imprisoning her if it was true.

*

Purrs ran away one of the times they stopped for gas. Parse had let him out of his crate between his shift as driver and as navigator, but Purrs curled up under the passenger seat and wouldn't come out no matter how much Parse cajoled him.

Scrappy was getting Belka out of the van for a walk when Purrs suddenly fled out the door past him. Scrappy tried to catch him, but he couldn't without letting go of Belka's leash.

Parse abandoned the pump and ran after the cat when he realized what had happened, but he couldn't catch him either. They waited at the gas station for almost an hour, much longer than they should have, but Purrs didn't come back.

*

They drove through the night, because back then they thought that was the only dangerous time. Swoops was driving with Scrappy as his navigator, carefully following Parse's penciled route in the atlas with a tiny LED flashlight Swoops had fished out of his console. After four hours, they switched. It gave Parse time to sleep; he'd been the one driving most of the day.

They could hear Parse crying quietly where he was stretched out in the backseat. But when Scrappy looked back, Parse had pulled a coat over his chest and head to hide his face, and he was holding on tight to Belka, who'd flopped down on top of him and occasionally licked his hand.

When Scrappy looked over at Swoops, Swoops gave him an unhappy, resigned 'I don't know what to say either' look. Scrappy looked back down at the map, and tried not to think about how he would be feeling if it had been Belka who'd run away instead.

*

The second day, they stopped on the side of the road during the middle of the day. All the radios were static, but the last AM station they were able to pick up before it became static too said that daylight was supposed to be safe.

They ate a mixed-up meal from some of the perishables from Swoops' kitchen, and then Scrappy won rock-paper-scissors and got the backseat. Parse and Swoops played again to pick the front seats. Parse only reclined the passenger seat halfway so Scrappy wasn't completely squashed.

He fell asleep mostly from weariness, to the sound of Parse and Swoops talking quietly and Belka breathing noisily as she stretched out on top of him.

He woke up to the sound of Belka growling.

Scrappy rubbed his eyes and made a face at the nasty taste in his mouth. And then something banged hard on the back window.

"Fuckin' _**go**!_" Parse yelled, before two gunshots sounded. Belka yelped and started barking.

The engine roared and then the SUV jolted forward, toppling Belka into Scrappy's side. When he looked out the back window, he could see somebody who definitely looked like an infected person crumpling to the ground. He couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman. One of the few things the early news had gotten right was the way the outbreak twisted people's features and made their hair fall out.

When he looked up front, Parse was standing with a leg braced on the passenger seat and leaning out of the sunroof as he shot at another infected person coming toward them. Swoops almost fishtailed the car as he peeled back onto the road and drove away.

They never really stopped for long after that. Daylight wasn't safe; who knew what else was false?

*

Scrappy was doing pushups in his cell when he heard Abby, the guard who gave him extra food, arguing with someone else.

"He's not infected!" she said. "Look at the charts! Talk to Tony. We been watching him over a month, he's clean."

"Fuckin' take it up with Ukraine, make 'em take him back," said a man whose voice Scrappy didn't recognize. "How long're we supposed to keep feeding a useless eater? He's not American."

"He's **not** infected."

"You're relieved," the man said.

There was more after that, but it was too low for Scrappy to understand. He never saw Abby on guard duty again.

*

Parse got scarier after the second day. Or, not scarier, but . . . he got like the way he did during playoffs, when he was shutting out everything except the goal of winning and moving on to the next round.

Except there wasn't a way to win this. They were hurting and killing people to keep themselves alive. There was nothing to win.

But after Purrs ran away and their car was attacked, Parse shut down inside himself and became laser-focused on the goal of getting them somewhere safe. Everything outside their car--everything outside the viciously narrowed circle of Scrappy and Swoops and Belka and Parse himself--became an obstacle to that goal. And Parse had made a career of finding his way around obstacles.

Scrappy wasn't afraid of Parse at any point, but he started to get scared for him.

Things had to get better eventually. The outbreak had to get contained eventually, people had to calm down, things had to go back to normal sooner or later. Scrappy couldn't bring himself to think about a world where that _didn't_ happen; it made everything they were doing to survive feel meaningless. Things had to get better, eventually.

But if they did, there would be consequences.

This wasn't a playoff round that they could win or lose without long-term effects. Scrappy had shot people. He'd shot and killed a person who was chasing Swoops as they tried to siphon gas from some abandoned cars.

He'd killed more people since then. Eventually, he couldn't remember how many.

Swoops and Parse had killed people too. They started to run out of arrows eventually, after the second time they couldn't avoid going onto a highway's frontage road. It started to feel like every time they came out of the backroads and got near large-scale civilization, the outbreak had spread further.

Things had to get better eventually. And then Parse would shake out of his focus like he always did; and then there would be consequences.

Scrappy could barely sleep anymore without hugging Belka and taking half a sleeping pill from the stash of medicine they'd picked up when they stopped at a convenience store. Parse had jumped the counter into the pharmacy and taken allergy meds for Swoops and sleeping pills for Scrappy and high-grade painkillers for all of them, along with bandages and antibiotic ointment and all the remaining first aid kits. The one person still running the store hadn't stopped him, because the guy was too busy trying to stop a group of people stealing beer.

Parse had grabbed a pill cutter, too, and told Scrappy not to take more than half a sleeping pill per rest break.

"We gotta be able to count on you, Scraps," Parse told him seriously. "You got our backs, yeah?"

"Yeah," Scrappy said automatically. If all he had left right now were two of his best friends and his dog, he was going to protect all of them.

But he still couldn't sleep without the pills. Not after the first time he'd shot an infected person and they could still hear the guy screaming in pain as they drove away from the residential street where they'd been siphoning gas, until it was cut off by the sound of breaking glass and flames as Parse threw a molotov cocktail out the sunroof at the growing group of people attracted to the noise. Swoops had sworn loud and panicked and furious even as he kept driving them away.

Scrappy tried really hard not to think about all the awful things he was doing to help keep the three of them alive, but it was hard.

Parse was better at it. But things had to get better eventually; and then Parse would go back to being his normal self.

And Scrappy was afraid that when that happened, all the things they'd done were going to crash down on Parse at once. Scrappy could barely handle dealing with each individual thing as it happened; the thought of trying to cope with the weight of everything all at once was terrifying.

He was never scared of Parse, just scared for him.

Until that stopped being relevant.

*

After he and Parse made it into Idaho, they stuck with the backroads, avoiding the highways and the forests. Parse didn't talk much any more.

Neither of them were sleeping well by that point. None of the roads felt safe; and there were only two of them now to split driving and navigating duties.

*

It was that damn longsword's fault.

Swoops wouldn't let them come near him after the fight. When Scrappy tried to toss him some antibiotic ointment and bandages and soap and a jug of water to clean off the blood and treat the ugly bite in his arm, Swoops told him not to waste it.

"Toss me one of the guns," Swoops said.

"_No_," Scrappy said in horror.

"Scraps, I can't...this is hard enough as it is," Swoops replied. He was struggling to half-smile. "Let's just get it over with, eh?"

"Quit being melodramatic. You're gonna be fine," Parse said. He jerked his head toward the farmhouse. "Look, go in there, see if the water still works an' get a shower. I'll bring in the bandages, it'll be fine."

Swoops looked at him for a long moment, and then closed his eyes and exhaled hard. He started to push up to his feet. "All right."

"I know what you're doing," Scrappy said.

He knew he wasn't the smartest guy out there, but he also knew Parse and Swoops. He knew they were lying to him, planning to take Swoops out of his sight to do it because they wanted to protect him from seeing it.

Swoops started to rub his face, and then looked at the drying blood on his hand and dropped it again.

"Scrappy," he said, and then his voice cracked.

Swoops swallowed hard. "I can't go with you guys anymore. All right? What if I get sick and I spread it to you? Don't ask me to do that, Dima. I can't."

Scrappy rubbed his face hard and dragged his hands over his hair, trying to figure out a solution. They weren't killing Swoops. But they couldn't make him come with them if he didn't want to. Well, Scrappy probably could if he fought Swoops for real, but he didn't want to do that to a friend.

He looked at Parse. Parse always had a plan.

Parse stared at Swoops silently for a long time. And then he closed his eyes and breathed out through his teeth.

"Alright, fuck it," Parse said. "Jeff, go wash that shit off. Scraps and I'll put some clothes and bandaids and shit in...wherever's clean in there. The kitchen?" He looked over at Scrappy. "Did you get anyone in the kitchen?""

Scrappy shook his head. Swoops said, "I told you, I'm not risking--"

"We're gonna leave you food and supplies too," Parse interrupted. "An' gas. They got a tractor in the barn, drive that 'til you find a car. I'll make a copy of the map, just--keep goin' and meet up with us later."

Scrappy and Swoops stared at him.

Swoops took a deep breath, and then said gently, "Kent. You know you can't waste your supplies like that. Be the captain, think about Scraps."

"'Our' supplies," Parse said. "Shut up and go wash, now. Scraps, help me unpack. Jeff, if you fuckin' die **I'm** gonna make sure I live to a hundred so I can talk shit about you every single day for the rest'a my life, you got me?"

"That's not how viruses work--"

"Who fuckin' knows what it really is?" Parse retorted. "Everythin' they said before was wrong, who knows what this is? Go wash off."

Swoops just gave him disbelieving look. "You know you're being an idiot."

"I don't need to hear _shit_ from the guy who brought a **sword** to a zombie fight," Parse said flatly, and Swoops snorted out a laugh. "Go wash your ass off before you really _do_ get sick, Troy. I'll desecrate your grave, fuckin' try an' stop me if you die."

Swoops rolled his eyes and looked over at Scrappy. "Scraps, are you really gonna let him desecrate my grave?"

"I'll help," Scrappy promised, and Parse snorted in surprise and then laughed. Swoops sighed wearily and dropped his head.

After shaking it, he looked back up at them and raised an eyebrow before saying dryly, "Okay, Parse. Tell me, how am I supposed to drive a tractor?"

"They got a fuckin' fancy one, it's not that hard, city boy," Parse said witheringly. "Push buttons 'til you figger it out. I thought center was the _intelligent_ forward position."

"Motherfucker, **one** time I make **one** comment--all right! All right," Swoops said, pretending like he wasn't trying to hold down a smile. He headed back into the farmhouse. "You're both idiots, all right."

"Still not takin' life advice from the dipshit who brought a sword to the zombie apocalypse!" Parse called. Swoops leaned back out the door long enough to hold up a middle finger.

*

Scrappy left Swoops' clothes on the cleanish kitchen table, along with one of the first aid kits and all the remaining perishable food and the sleeping bag and a third of the water, inside containers that he was pretty sure would probably fit inside the enclosed cab of the tractor out in the barn. He managed to fit Swoops' duffel bag on top of the table too, and piled his phone and coat and a flashlight and one of the bars of soap Parse had brought on top of it.

Parse sketched out the route north on several sheets of printer paper that he'd taken from the farmhouse's office, and finally folded them in half and tucked them into the mesh side pocket of Swoops' duffel. "Alright, let's go."

The sun was starting to sink; but Swoops hadn't come back out yet. The shower had been running for almost an hour now.

Scrappy looked down the hall at the bathroom. "We gotta say goodbye."

"He's got his phone," Parse said, patting it on top of the duffel. "He'll call soon as they start goin' through again."

Scrappy shook his head and looked down the hallway again. The shower was running steadily. "But...."

"If there're infected people here, there's prolly more on the other farms," Parse told him. "We gotta book it before it gets dark, Scrappy." Parse shrugged. "He's probably quadruple scrubbin' to make sure he gets it all off. I'd be. We gotta go."

The shower was running really steadily. Like someone wasn't actually moving around under the water's spray.

Scrappy looked down the hall again, and then looked back at Parse. "Are you lying to me again?"

"I don't know," Parse said, jamming his hands into his pockets as his voice started shaking. "I don't wanna find out. Can we just fuckin' go, Dima? I don't wanna know."

Parse was a smart guy. He'd probably noticed how the shower sounded a lot earlier. He'd just kept on going anyway, trying to keep it together for Scrappy's sake. And maybe also his own.

"...Okay," Scrappy said. "...He'll call. Let's go."

*

They never got a call from Swoops' phone. The cell towers were still down when they crossed over into Idaho.

*

Eventually, somebody stood outside of Scrappy's quarantine cell and told him he'd been tried in absentia for murder and found guilty. When Scrappy asked to speak to the Ukrainian diplomat again, the man just walked away.

He asked the guard nearby to let him speak to his agent (Scrappy didn't know if the man was still alive), to let him speak to his mom (he hadn't been allowed to make a phone call since he was put in quarantine), to let him speak to a representative from the nearest Ukrainian embassy (he wasn't sure what state he was being kept in). He was ignored.

Scrappy eventually swore at the man in vicious, furious Ukrainian before finally walking away from the door and collapsing on his cot. He stared up at the ceiling and fidgeted with Belka's tag, jingling it over and over.

*

If it had been a real trial, Scrappy would have pled guilty. He knew he'd injured people, and murdered others, and probably caused some more to die from bad injuries. He couldn't remember how many.

That was the part that made it hardest to sleep. He wanted to remember. They had been people. They'd had lives and families and friends and maybe pets, and jobs and loved ones and worries and things they were looking forward to, the same as him. It didn't matter if they'd been infected. They'd still been human beings, the same as him.

And Scrappy had hurt or killed them, to protect other human beings he cared about more.

He didn't like that he couldn't remember how many people it had been. It felt disrespectful, like his forgetting somehow meant that because they'd had the bad luck to get sick, they deserved to die.

But he couldn't remember even when he started trying to again. Things had gotten so bad so fast that everything had blurred together: driving careful and tense on two-lane highways through the desert mountains in the dark, while Swoops gave him directions and kept scanning their surroundings to watch out for abandoned cars or stray infected people; trying to read faded pencil marks on the map while Parse squinted against the sunrise in the driver's seat; the taste of gasoline and toothpaste after the first time he screwed up siphoning gas from an abandoned van and he didn't want to waste more than a mouthful of their water on rinsing out his mouth; driving careful and three times as tense through small towns; fighting and shooting at infected people; how he and Parse and Swoops had eventually started trying to retell every movie in the MCU in order, starting from Iron Man and ending with a debate on what the Black Widow movie would be like, because all the radios were static by then and none of them wanted to use their remaining phone batteries to play audiobooks or podcasts or music.

When Scrappy made it far enough north that he reached the border of the outbreak zone and he was seized and put into quarantine, they said it hadn't been very long. About a week. Eight days? Ten? It felt like three months.

*

He didn't know when or how Parse got infected. They had stopped in a ghost town so Swoops' car could cool down for a while, and they were taking shifts sleeping in the post office that had already been broken into when they got there. It was empty when they searched it.

Parse eventually woke Scrappy up. He gave him a handful of gas station receipts and told him to put them in his pocket and read them later, and asked him to pack the car.

Scrappy went out to the SUV, and tried to figure out what he was supposed to pack. Belka was missing, but that was it.

Everything else was already done. The gas tank was full. The atlas was sitting on the driver's seat; Parse had drawn a new route in pen, one that ran through Idaho and up into Oregon and Washington. Parse's watch was sitting in one of the front cupholders for some reason. All the guns and ammo and the bows and remaining arrows were hidden underneath Parse's coat in the floorboard of the passenger seat, which was a wild breach of security--what if someone had taken them when neither of them were watching Swoops' car?

Almost all the guns were there. The smallest handgun that Scrappy had taken from the shooting complex was missing.

There was a gunshot inside the post office.

Scrappy shouldered the rifle he'd been sleeping with and ran back into the building, thinking panickedly of the missing gun and Parse being alone and how maybe there was a back door they'd missed.

It took him several seconds to get through the front and sweep the main room for threats. There was a second gunshot.

He could smell the gasoline and hear the fire before he got into the back room. For a couple seconds, Scrappy froze in confusion; and then he finally processed who the two collapsed, burning shapes were and what the cooking meat smell really was.

He fled.

Scrappy threw up outside, and then leaned heavily against Swoops' car and stared blankly at the open door.

*

Parse had written to him on the back of the gas station receipts. He said that he'd gotten infected and he was going to take care of it, and told Scrappy to follow the new pen route north. He told Scrappy thanks for being one of his best friends.

He said that he was really, really sorry about Belka, but he was pretty sure she was infected too. Parse had shared some of the water he'd been drinking with her before he'd realized he was getting sick. He said that he was so fucking sorry, but he'd rather Scrappy hated him for killing his dog than risk infecting him, too.

His handwriting started to get hard to read. Parse said that he hoped everyone was wrong about how the infection worked, and that Swoops had found a car and he was on his way up too, and that he was okay and that he and Scrappy were going to be okay. He said that Scrappy and Swoops had his permission to call him a dumbass for the rest of their lives if that happened. He told Scrappy to promise he'd make it out safe.

Parse wrote something else, but the last receipt was blurry from tear stains, and Scrappy couldn't understand it no matter how long he tried.

*

He drove away eventually, when the building started to burn.

*

Later, he found Belka's collar under the toolbox. She'd managed to scratch it off at some point between the second and third day, but they'd never found where it had gone. Swoops had braided her a makeshift one from some smooth twine so she could still go on walks.

She was always scratching off or chewing off or otherwise destroying her collars. Scrappy went through about one a month with her.

Had gone through.

Scrappy sat on the floorboard of Swoops' car wearing Parse's watch and holding Belka's collar, and cried until he was too dehydrated to continue.

And then he used the pliers to fix the seat handle that had snapped when he'd yanked it too hard, and drank some water, and got back on the road, and followed the new route.

*

They came for him several hours after he was told about the mock trial, putting him in hand- and leg-cuffs and telling him that he was being transferred. Nobody said where to. Nobody looked him in the eye when they said "transferred."

Scrappy wasn't the smartest guy out there, but he wasn't stupid, either.

He kept asking to be allowed to call his mom until the very end.

While they were walking down the hallway, one of the guards tried to take Parse's watch off his wrist. Scrappy fought him until another guard hit him in the back of the head with his rifle. The leg-cuffs screwed up his balance, making him stumble; and then he was shoved in the back.

Scrappy fell, swearing when his knees hit the concrete hard. Somebody hit him in the back of the head again. And again. When he fell flat on the ground, somebody started kicking him.

Eventually he blacked out.  
  
  


The finalized death statistics were considered divisive.


	2. Repetition is a Form of Change

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains references to the 2017 mass shooting in Las Vegas.  
~  
  


There's no practice that morning: just meetings to cover strategies for their game against the Aeros tomorrow night. Scrappy and Parse and Swoops decide to get lunch together before coming back to the clubhouse to work out.

Scrappy holds them up by having to hit the bathroom first, because he has a bad habit of drinking too much coffee to stay awake in team meetings and he knows it. Parse and Swoops are bickering beside Parse's car about where to get lunch when he comes outside, because Swoops doesn't like the sandwich place nearby, because Swoops has bad taste.

"Scraps!" Parse calls, hitting a button on his keys. The car beeps twice as all the doors unlock. "Where do you--"

"Sandwiches," Scrappy says.

"_Scraps_," Swoops replies with a betrayed face, but he really should know better by now. Scrappy just shrugs and pulls open the backseat door.

"Don't forget to lock 'em," Parse says as he and Swoops get into the front.

"You still haven't fixed that?" Swoops asks, as he flips his door's lock shut. Scrappy does the same for his door; Parse's automatic locks screwed up a month ago. "Lazy, Parse."

"When've I had time?" Parse replies, which Scrappy guesses is fair. They've had two long roadies since then, and not a whole lot of free days.

"You know they let you drop cars off, right?" Swoops drawls as they stop at a red light. "And you can rent a _new_ car while they're fixing yours?"

Parse makes a 'that's not happening' noise, because he's kind of a cheapskate for a multi-millionaire. Somebody pulls open the back door on Parse's side and slides into the seat next to Scrappy.

"Don't panic," the guy tells Parse, pointing a gun at Scrappy. "I need you to drive me to the Spring Valley hospital. Don't take the highway. Drop me off and I'm outta your hair."

"Hey, okay, okay," Parse says, wearing his media smile as he lifts his hands slightly from the steering wheel. "For sure, man. But if you're hurt, we've got medical supplies back at the arena, a lot closer. How about I turn--"

"Drive, Kent," the guy says, before a horn honks behind them. The light's green. "I don't want to shoot Dimitri, but I will. Turn right."

. . . _Damn_, Scrappy thinks.

He guesses it was inevitable that a screwed-up fan would come after Parse sooner or later. The world's gotten so messed up. At least Parse wasn't alone when it happened.

"For sure, okay," Parse replies, still media-smiling as he puts his hands back on the wheel. The car behind them honks again before pulling around them and zooming past and making a left. Parse turns right.

"Good," the guy says, sounding a little relieved. "Okay. Just drive how I tell you and everything should be okay."

"Sure thing, man," Parse says, glancing at Scrappy in the rearview mirror. Scrappy holds his gaze and uses his peripheral vision to try and gauge how the guy's holding his gun. His finger isn't on the trigger. Does Scrappy have enough time to wrestle it away, without risking the guy shooting him or Swoops or Parse?

"Please don't do it, Dimitri," the guy says. "You grab the gun, and then Kent swings the car to the left and we skid and crash into that bulldozer, and then I die and I don't know what happens to y'all but it's probably not great, 'cause he'd rather kill me and hurt himself than chance you getting shot. Turn left."

"Uh," Scrappy says. Parse and Swoops both stare at the guy.

"**Left**!" the guy shouts, and Parse twists forward and just barely makes the turn.

"What the fuck--" Swoops starts, before Parse elbows him hard in the side. Swoops cuts off and takes a deep breath.

"Hey, man," Parse says calmly. "Are you having a bad trip? No judgment--"

"'I've been there too,'" the guy says, and Parse startles. "You tried a lot of drugs your first year in Juniors, until one of the older guys caught on and straightened you out. Eventually all the rumors about you got tied to Jack, and you let them because why damage your reputation correcting things when his was already burned down."

"What the _fuck?!_" Parse demands.

His knuckles are white on the steering wheel. Scrappy tenses up.

"Turn right up here," the guy says. He shifts the gun away from Scrappy's chest, at his knee. "Don't hit the breaks, Kent. I won't kill Dimitri but I _will_ shoot him. Career-ending injury."

Scrappy jerks back against his door reflexively.

Swoops holds up his hands, still twisted around in his seat to face the guy. "Hey, hey, okay. Look, Parse, just--turn right. Yeah? Let's all stay calm, okay?"

Parse takes a long, unsteady breath, and then slows down and makes the right turn. He just barely gets onto the road before the light changes from yellow to red.

"Okay," the guy says. "Stay on this until you get to Desert Primrose."

"Alright," Parse says.

A couple moments later, Parse adds evenly, ". . . How 'bout you put the safety on, huh? I'll drive where you want, but go ahead and do that. Gimme a guarantee you don't wanna hurt Scraps."

"No," the guy says. "I do that, and then you drive into the temple's parking lot and ram the cop car there, and then I gotta shoot myself to start over."

"Hey, nobody's shooting anybody, yeah?" Swoops says, lifting his hands again and then slowly resting one on Parse's tense shoulder. "We're just going to drive down to Spring Valley. No trouble."

The guy sighs. "I probably already fucked this one up. Whenever you get pissed enough your accent comes out, half the time you crash us," he says wearily. "I just need to get to Spring Valley. It's only half an hour. We can do this, Kent. Okay? That's all I want. Jeff's right, nobody's gotta get hurt."

"Alright," Parse repeats, in that flat tone he gets sometimes in bad games. Scrappy always has to fight somebody after Parse goes rat when his voice gets like that.

But Parse is driving at the speed limit down the road like the guy said to. Swoops still has a restraining hand on Parse's shoulder, but the guy seems okay with it as long as he can see both of Swoops' hands.

Both Parse and Swoops seem to be trying to keep the guy calm, which--since Scrappy is the one with the gun pointed at him--he appreciates. But it means he's probably going to have to be the one to ask the obvious question, because seriously what is going on?

The guy says, "Yeah, Dimitri, I know I sound like a crazy person. **Believe** me, I know."

"Uh," Scrappy says again. "..._How?_"

"I've done this so many times," the guy says, sounding tired again. "Like, I'm tired of tellin' this story. I don't think I need to get you guys to believe me, I just need you to believe enough to get me there. Get in the right lane, Kent."

Parse turns on the indicator silently and slows down so he can pull into the right lane behind another car.

". . . I don't get it," Scrappy says.

"You're saying..." Swoops starts slowly, "that you're...reliving today? Repeatedly?"

"Yeah."

". . . Like--"

"'Edge of Tomorrow,' yeah," the guy says. Swoops keeps staring at him for a long moment with his mouth open slightly. Scrappy guesses the guy just said what Swoops was about to say, too.

"Y'know, I never say this, but it's really weird neither you or Kent say Groundhog Day," the guy adds. "Only Dimitri. You should watch the classics."

"...Uh-huh," Swoops says.

"Why?" Scrappy asks.

"I dunno why it's happening," the guy says, shaking his head.

Which is what Scrappy meant. Maybe they had this conversation before? Except time travel isn't real, that's a Bill Murray movie thing.

"It just started one day. I dunno what I gotta do to make it stop, I'm so tired," the guy continues. "Turn right here, Kent. Take the loop and then get back on Town Center.

"Don't slam the breaks," the guy adds. "I'm not going to the hospital. But if I tell you where I'm goin', the cops always get me."

"Mm," Parse says; but he turns on the indicator to go right again.

"I'm not going to the hospital," the guy says again. "Like, I know you're not gonna believe me 'cause I hijacked you, but I'm not an asshole. I just started telling you 'Spring Valley Hospital Medical Center' because it gets me close enough, and y'all throw off the police by reportin' a potential attack there 'cause you have to."

Parse says, "Tellin' me you ain't goin' to a place is really bad way t' convince me to report it, man."

"I know you're gonna call the cops and tell them a crazy man with a gun is heading for the hospital," the guy says patiently. "All three of you've told me how Carly changed his number so the Aces could retire 58 after the shooting." He reaches up and grips the grab handle. "You're all good people. You're not gonna risk it."

Parse slams on the breaks, causing the car behind them to blare its horn as it wrenches over into the other lane. Scrappy braces his forearm against the headrest of Swoops' seat as his seatbelt cuts hard into his chest.

Parse twists around, jaw tight. "_Fuck_ you think you are, psycho."

The guy presses his gun against Scrappy's knee. Scrappy goes still.

"This is bigger than him," the guy says steadily, looking at Parse. "Or any 'a you. You care about your friends more than you admit, Kent. That's why you refused to take the combine too, to cover for Jack because you knew about the drugs and alcohol and knew he couldn't go through it."

Swoops makes a weird noise in the back of his throat. Parse stares wide-eyed at the guy as he goes pale.

"Shut your fucking mouth," Scrappy tells the asshole, curling his hands into fists. People don't get to make his lineys look the way Parse does now and get away with it.

Swoops and Parse jump; and Scrappy belatedly registers that someone's honked at them again. The asshole doesn't move.

"--Hey," Swoops says heavily, lifting his hand a little higher as another car tears past them, still laying on its horn. He squeezes Parse's shoulder hard.

"Okay. Okay, let's just. . . . Dima, relax," Swoops says, laying a hand on Scrappy's knee, next to the barrel of the gun. "Kent, keep on driving. Let's all stay calm, eh? Please take the gun off Dimitri. We'll do what you want. But take it off, yeah?"

"Okay," the guy says. He pulls the gun away from Scrappy's knee. Scrappy swallows hard and tries to go back to breathing normally. "I don't want to shoot him, Jeff. It goes bad every single time it comes to that. If you keep Kent centered so we get there, nobody gets hurt, all right? I don't wanna hurt any 'a you."

"For sure, okay," Swoops says, as Parse starts driving again, still breathing shakily. He squeezes Scrappy's leg briefly. "Thanks for taking the gun away."

"I don't want to hurt you," the guy repeats, sounding sincere. "You all seem alright. But I gotta get there before she does. So--sorry about this. But get me there, and that's it."

*

For a while, none of them say anything except for the guy, who keeps giving Parse directions: a left, going back up again, a right, turning back down, and then another left before they reverse up yet again and make another right. Scrappy has the out-of-nowhere thought that he's living out a car chase movie.

It's kind of strange that it's happening in Las Vegas, and not back when he was playing for Boston's feeder team in Providence. The mob's still active there; it's been driven out of Vegas.

"Right lane," the guy tells Parse. "Turn right on Durango."

"'Kay," Parse says in an empty voice. He turns on the indicator again.

"...Why us?" Scrappy finally asks. It's been bothering him, but neither Parse nor Swoops seem willing to talk much to the guy, if it means he might shoot Scrappy.

"Kent hasn't fixed the locks. When he opens them for y'all to get in, you forget to lock this one," the guy tells Scrappy, tilting his head at the door behind him. "This was the car I could get into."

Swoops pauses, and then turns his head to stare at Parse.

". . . Shuddup," Parse mutters.

*

The guy keeps up his convoluted directions, sending Parse backtracking and then moving forward again, steadily taking them closer to the hospital.

Scrappy assumes that's where they're headed. He hasn't been willing to take his eyes off the guy as long as he's still pointing a gun at his knee.

If this guy isn't totally crazy--if even some part of his story about repeating this day is somehow true--it kind of freaks Scrappy out to think about how and why the guy might've learned the phrase _career-ending injury_.

Scrappy assumes they're heading for the hospital, because his mental map is completely lost by now. He's lived in Las Vegas for almost a decade, but this city is constantly building and expanding; it's impossible to keep up with. Scrappy automatically turns on his GPS every time he gets in his car, unless he's driving to one of the arenas, or to the grocery store or to some of his teammates' places.

The guy detours them into a gated community, and gets them past the security guard at the gate by giving the password for a condo showing. The guy tossed the coat he was carrying across his lap, hiding the gun while he spoke even as he kept it pressed to Scrappy's knee.

The guy has Parse drive through part of the area before sending him back outside onto a main road. And then they cut off of it again for a little while, going south before turning back north and heading back up toward the same road.

"**Stop**!" the guy says abruptly, and Parse hits the breaks in surprise.

The guy shoves his door open and takes off across the street, just barely avoiding being hit by a car coming in the opposite direction. Scrappy winces as its breaks squeal.

The guy climbs swiftly over the chain link fence surrounding the wash trail and then drops down on the other side, and keeps running. A couple seconds later, he disappears from sight as he jumps down into the sewer.

The car in the opposite lane guns its engine, speeding past them.

". . . _Fuck_," Parse says. His hands are gripped tight around the steering wheel.

"What the hell," Swoops agrees.

Parse twists around to look at Scrappy. "Scraps. You okay?"

Scrappy still really wants to punch that asshole for making Parse look so upset and for making Swoops sound so scared, but he knew he couldn't do that. But knowing didn't make the adrenaline stop.

Scrappy keeps trying to breathe evenly, which makes it impossible to think of something to say. All he can think at the moment are swears, and that won't help him get out of this mindset. He nods.

Parse narrows his eyes slightly, like he doesn't believe him.

Then another car comes up behind them. It slows down, before finally just pulling around. Parse pulls up to the sidewalk, ignoring the no parking sign next to them.

". . . Can he get to the hospital that way?" Swoops asks eventually.

Parse shrugs jerkily.

"We have to call the police," Scrappy says.

Parse exhales heavily, and then braces his elbows on the steering wheel. He drops his forehead into his hands.

"Becky said if I end up on TMZ again she's gonna resign," Parse mutters. "I'm not gettin' on there because of a _carjacking_ by some. Fuckin'. Fake time-traveling, minder-reader Houdini bullshit."

"He said he was taking a gun to the hospital," Scrappy says.

Parse lifts his head enough to look at him in the rearview mirror. He gives Scrappy that irritated face he makes whenever Scrappy's saying the same thing as the moral compass he knows Parse has, but that Parse doesn't always like to listen to.

"Then he jumped in the sewer," Parse says. "How could he get to there through that? They've gotta have grates or somethin'."

"Alarms. You can get around that," Swoops says, looking at a map on his phone. "Basic urbex skill. When are you gonna read the book I gave you, Parse?"

Parse's response is ruder than necessary. Swoops gave Scrappy a copy of that urban exploration book last year too, and it was all right. Scrappy read it, but he still doesn't understand the appeal of climbing up cranes or breaking into sewers and other locked off places just to be there. It seems like the kind of stuff that people with too much time and money do. The pictures were cool, though.

"The wash goes by a high school," Swoops adds, looking over at Parse and showing him the map. "There's a middle school by the hospital."

"--I'm calling the police," Scrappy says. He doesn't want to get Parse in trouble, or cause the Aces' head of PR to resign, but he can't do nothing.

Parse slumps deep into his seat and stares up out the car's sunroof.

"--Alright, alright," he says in exhaustion. "Swoops, you call the cops. Scraps, you call Becky, tell her we got in some trouble and the police're involved. She likes you."

"Hey," Swoops says.

"You're never gonna be her favorite 'til you stop googlin' yourself," Parse replies, sitting up again. Swoops elbows him in the arm.

"Okay," Scrappy says, because he didn't actually want to talk to the police. Legal authority figures make him nervous. He undoes his seatbelt and fishes his phone out of his pocket.

"Better leave the car," Parse adds, nodding at Scrappy's door. He pops open his own door. "I gotta call my agent."

"Call your mechanic," Swoops replies. "Get the friggin' locks fixed already."

Parse exhales though his teeth. "Yeah, alright. After."

"Nobody's gonna believe the nonsense some druggie toting a gun spouts," Swoops says, and his voice is serious now. Parse pauses in the middle of undoing his seatbelt.

Swoops thumbs over into the actual phone part of his phone, without looking up. "_I_ definitely didn't hear anything he said about the past."

Parse gives Swoops a look that Scrappy can't fully understand, but that's okay. Parse and Swoops have their own thing together in their friendship, the same way Scrappy is friends in different ways with Parse versus Swoops. "Jeff."

"Because if _somehow_ you were actually doing drugs in your Juniors years, and **still** put up the numbers you did," Swoops says with aggressive casualness, "I would have to murder you, because how dare you exist."

Parse snorts hard, and then snickers for a little while before bracing his forehead against his hand again.

"...It was just the first year," Parse mutters. "I didn't do coke. So--"

"_I will strangle you, Parson_."

"Jealousy is unbecoming, Troy," Parse deadpans, and Swoops makes a noise like he's maybe actually mentally strangling Parse.

"Fuck," Swoops says a second later, slumping against his seat and pressing a hand to his chest. Scrappy hits the call button for Becky's number, because it's probably safe now if Parse and Swoops are done talking about that thing. "What're the symptoms of a heart attack?"

"Your left arm tingling?" Parse asks. Swoops shakes his head. "You're fine, drama queen."

"Parse, your idea of 'okay' is so fucked up, I worry about you every day."

"Las Vegas Aces' PR," Becky says tinnily through Scrappy's phone. He lifts it closer to his ear. "Dimitri? Is everything okay?"

"No," Scrappy answers. "We got a carjacked by a guy with a gun who said he was going to the Spring Valley hospital. I'm calling you because Swoops is calling the police."

Swoops says something inaudible and then dials 911. Scrappy opens his door and steps outside, so his call won't interfere with Swoops'.

"--Okay," Becky says evenly. "Where are you? Is it just you and Jeff?"

"No. It's him and me and Parse," Scrappy answers. "It was Parse's car, but Swoops is calling. Because. . . ."

. . . He doesn't really want to get into any of the things that the guy said. Scrappy knows he has a bad habit where sometimes he says something, or asks something, and it upsets Parse or Swoops because it was supposed to be one of those unspoken things, or a secret, or something else like that that Scrappy failed to pick up on.

If anything that guy said was true--and given the way Parse reacted to the things the guy said about him and Zimmermann, Scrappy's uncomfortably sure they were true--Scrappy really doesn't want to say anything first. He'd rather follow Parse and Swoops' lead.

So instead he looks at Parse when Parse gets out of the car too. "Where are we?"

"Tenaya Way," Parse answers. "Between...." He braces a hand over his eyes, and squints along the road at the signs for the two roads they're parked between. "--Aspire and Mesa Vista."

Scrappy repeats the information to Becky. She tells them to remain right there even if the police arrive first and try to move them to a different location to give a statement, and says she's on her way.

Inside the car, Swoops is talking calmly to a 911 operator. Parse shuts the driver's door and calls the Honda dealership, making an appointment to bring his car in.

*

The Aces' head of PR and its GM arrive a few minutes after the police, while Swoops is over by the chain link fence with a couple police officers and pointing out the place where the guy jumped into the wash. One of the officers holds Becky and Greg back; but after Parse explains who they are, she stops trying to make them leave.

Becky and Greg follow them back to the police station, and wait in the parking lot while Scrappy and Swoops and Parse give their statements. Then all five of them head back to the Aces' practice arena, where Parse and Swoops tell Becky and Greg almost everything that happened.

By that point, it's evening and their former plans are pretty much wrecked. Greg calls in the the team psychologist and makes Scrappy go see her before he's allowed to leave, because Parse and Swoops kept telling him that Scrappy seems in shock.

Dr. Brierley talks with him for a while. She gives him a loose pile of scrap paper while they chat; it takes Scrappy a while to realize that he's been tearing it all into shreds. He starts sweeping it up off the carpet and throws it into the trashcan after that.

Dr. Brierley eventually says he's okay to go. She tells Scrappy to let her know if he has any bad dreams or trouble sleeping, and says that that's a perfectly normal reaction.

She also asks him to tell her if he thinks Parse or Swoops are doing the same thing. They've all been through a lot; it's normal for this kind of thing to be stressful.

*

Parse and Swoops hung around the clubhouse, waiting for him. They both sent him text messages to meet up with them in the common room.

Scrappy and Parse both end up moving their cars into the arena's covered lot. The GM gives them a couple passes for the garage, so they won't get towed overnight.

Swoops starts to drive Scrappy and Parse back to their individual apartments. And then he drives them back to his own house instead, when Scrappy insists on it.

Scrappy tries not to be selfish; but some maybe-fan and definite-crazy-person broke into Parse's car hours ago. He doesn't want to let Parse or Swoops out of his sight just yet. He can't protect them if they're not there with him.

*

They end up crashing for the night at Swoops' house, eating leftover salad and a heated frozen pizza that tastes kind of bad. Scrappy doesn't complain about either, because they're better than ordering takeout and allowing another stranger to have access to Swoops' house.

Almost as soon as they're inside, Swoops starts streaming Property Brothers episodes on the living room TV. He keeps it on in the background for the rest of the night, until they all finally head to sleep. They all know it's Parse's go-to show when he's feeling agitated and wants mindless distraction.

Parse keeps pretending he's fine; but he's definitely off all evening, full of nervous energy. He keeps getting up from the couch and finding things to do: refilling their waters; bringing out a second round of beers that Swoops and Scrappy ignore because both of theirs are still half-full and Parse never even opened his first; taking the plates back to the kitchen. Eventually Parse starts washing all the dishes, which is the point when Swoops finally goes into the kitchen and drags him back to the couch and makes him sit down and stay still.

Scrappy drapes his arm heavily over Parse's shoulders after Swoops resettles him between the two of them. Parse exhales through his teeth unnecessarily noisily.

But then Swoops shifts to the mini-series about Jonathan and Drew building their home in Las Vegas. And after a while, Parse eventually sinks back into the couch. Scrappy can feel his shoulders starting to loosen underneath his arm.

Pretty soon after that, Parse and Swoops are doing all their usual chirping at the episodes.

Scrappy eventually pops open his second beer and starts sipping at it. He's grateful when he finally starts to drift into the faint buzz and the feeling that things are beginning to return to normal again. Even if they're probably going to have to talk about some of the things the guy said in the car eventually.

It doesn't have to be tonight. Right now, Parse and Swoops are right here with him, and Swoops' house alarm is on to keep out the rest of the world, and Parse and Swoops are chirping the heck out of Jonathan like usual for doing an excessive herringbone pattern on the floorboards of the side house he and Drew built for their parents, giving the poor guy crap for his desperate attempt to prove he's the best son.

Scrappy takes another sip of beer, and lets himself finally start to relax and believe that things are going to be okay again.

*

The next morning, Parse and Swoops and Scrappy spend breakfast working out the version of the story they want to tell the rest of the team.

The Aces spend the rest of the month chirping Parse for getting carjacked because he was too lazy to get his locks fixed.

Carly passes around his hat during the team meeting that morning, taking up a collection to pay for new locks for Parse's car. Scrappy puts in twenty dollars just to watch Parse give him an exasperated face.

*

The police contact them one final time.

Scrappy and Parse and Swoops have to go down to the morgue, to determine if a corpse there is the same person who hijacked Parse's car. The mortician warns them about the gunshot damage to the upper temple before pulling the body out.

It's the same guy.

Parse and Swoops do most of the talking, afterward. Scrappy keeps staring at the body after the mortician covers it back up, and thinks about the guy saying _And then I gotta shoot myself to start over_.  
  
  


Just another reset.


	3. Letting The Right One In

Scrappy's sitting in the sauna after his workout when Parse and Swoops come in. Parse takes one look at the towel wrapped around the thermostat, says "Nope," and walks back out.

Swoops, to his credit, stays. But he heads over to the towel that Scrappy soaked in cold water before wrapping it around the thermostat in order to force the sauna to get to an actual decent heat. "Scraps, c'mon."

"Naw," Scrappy replies, closing his eyes again without shifting from his seat on the top bench. "Can't take the heat, go sit in the hot tub with Parse."

Swoops grumbles under his breath, but he leaves the thermostat alone and heads over to a lower bench by Scrappy.

Swoops makes it four minutes and thirteen seconds before he starts complaining about the heat, which Scrappy guesses he should get credit for. All of his North American teammates are wimps about the sauna.

Their Finnish backup goalie is better, but Jary's on injured reserve at the moment after pulling his groin in a game last week. The call-up goalie taking over for him is another Canadian, and somebody clearly warned him to steer clear of the sauna if Scrappy or the Aces' Russian forward are in it first.

"You remember when you broke _my_ sauna doing this?" Swoops whines. "When this one breaks too, we're all gonna know it was you."

"You bought a bad sauna," Scrappy replies, because he paid Swoops for the repairs and he hasn't tried to rig the standalone indoor box Swoops calls a 'sauna' since then. "It's just a warm box."

"This is a murder box," Swoops gripes, and Scrappy chuckles.

"You can sit in the hot tub," he repeats, opening one eye to give Swoops an amused look.

Swoops is sprawled out on his towel across the lower bench, rubbing sweat away from his face. "If I go and leave you in here, I'm an accessory to the murder box."

Scrappy smiles and shakes his head.

But after another minute, he sits up and tucks his towel back around his waist. He lost track of long he's been in here, but it feels like it's time to take a break. "Okay, let's go."

Swoops waves a hand absently in the air. "No, no, don't let my impending death stop you."

Swoops snorts as he climbs down to the floor. He grabs Swoops' hand to pull him up into a sitting position. "You big baby. Come on."

Scrappy tugs the towel off the thermostat and heads out, holding the door for Swoops since the other man's wrapping his towel back around his waist. Over in the hot tub, Parse calls, "Lasted seven minutes and two seconds, Troy."

"You lasted _zero seconds_, Parson!" Swoops calls back as Scrappy heads for the buckets of ice water he set up before going into the sauna.

"I ain't the one tryin' to prove something," Parse says cheerfully.

He stretches out further inside the tub before tipping his head back over the edge to grin at Swoops. "Man, this feels _great_. Just the perfect temperature, y'know?"

Swoops says some rude things in response, before dodging around Scrappy as he dumps the first bucket of ice water over his own head. Scrappy shakes the water out of his eyes and then reaches for the second bucket as Swoops turns on the shower nearby to lukewarm.

*

He and Swoops towel off and head to the change room to get back into their street clothes. Other guys drift in and out of there as they wrap up their own workouts and cool downs.

Scrappy's finished shaving at one of the sinks when Carly heads out of the room, leaving it empty except for him and Swoops.

Swoops was over by his locker, pulling on the clothes he'd folded up and left inside. But after Carly leaves, he quits dressing while he still only has one shoe on and comes over to the sinks. Scrappy looks up from rinsing off his razor when he feels Swoops come up behind him, and then Swoops lays a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey," Swoops says quietly, holding his gaze in the mirror. "Come over to my place today."

Scrappy has to look away, glancing back down at his razor. Swoops' steady gaze and the weight of his hand on Scrappy's shoulder is too much, too fast, here in the dressing room that all of their teammates and coaches and the other Aces' staff can access.

But he knew Swoops was going to ask at some point today, after what happened during yesterday's game. So Scrappy nods and swallows, and says, "Okay."

Swoops squeezes his shoulder, and Scrappy swallows again. "Okay," Swoops says. "How about now? We'll have lunch after, eh?"

Scrappy looks up at him in the mirror again. "Okay."

Swoops nods and pats his shoulder, and then goes back to his locker to finish dressing. Scrappy shakes the water out of his razor and hangs it back in its spot on the wall as the Aces' goalie comes into the room, drying his hair.

*

During the Aces' game against the Schooners last afternoon, Scrappy fumbled a hit on Seattle's captain and ended up driving the man's head into the boards. Fearn left the game and never came back.

Scrappy knew Swoops was going to ask him to come over, because Seattle finally released a full injury update on Fearn this morning. He'd gone to the hospital with a broken jaw and concussion symptoms.

Scrappy was worried that the "upper-body injury" was bad when he'd texted Fearn last night that it was an accident and he hoped he was okay, and never heard back from the other man. But he hadn't been expecting it to be that bad.

Scrappy tried not to think about it while he was at the clubhouse. He tried to make himself focus on the team meeting and on his workout, but it was hard. He'd screwed up, bad, and somebody else got seriously hurt because of it. It was impossible not to think about it.

The head coach talked to him about staying focused and not letting his temper get to him in games. The video coach reviewed the hit with Scrappy and talked him though what went wrong: he'd come in too fast, with too much of his weight centered on his shoulder, and he wasn't able to adjust and hit the glass instead when Fearn skidded on that patch of slushy ice by the boards and dropped into a bad position--and Scrappy shouldn't have been doing a hit in that spot anyway, because everybody on the Aces knew about that slushy patch the technicians still haven't been able to fix yet, and knew that it's dangerous. Those things helped.

Fearn's wife finally answered Scrappy's text, writing that Johnny said to tell him that shit happened and he'd be fine. That didn't help, because if Rachel was the one answering, it meant Fearn's concussion was bad enough that he was on a no screens restriction.

Scrappy tried to stay focused while he was at the clubhouse, especially after the trainer had to yell at him twice when Scrappy got distracted while lifting weights and his form got sloppy enough that he might have hurt himself. But the accident kept eating at him.

Even when he tried to focus, his mind kept drifting back to that bad hit, playing over how he'd messed up again and again.

So it was a relief when Swoops finally asked.

*

Scrappy drives his own car over to Swoops' house, since he's pretty sure he'll end up staying the night. If he left his car overnight at the Aces' clubhouse, somebody would ask him about it.

His dog is still boarded with the vet after their last roadie, because the team didn't get back to Vegas until after they closed on Saturday, and they weren't open before the matinee game yesterday because it was Sunday. And after Seattle released Fearn's injury report, Scrappy called Dr. Fusselman's office this morning and asked if he could leave Belka's there one more day. He knew Swoops was going to ask him to come over.

Swoops gets to his house a couple minutes before Scrappy does, because Scrappy got caught up at a red light. Swoops left the garage door open for him.

After Swoops signed his current eight-year extension with the Aces and started building his house in Summerlin, he installed a three-car garage so that there would always be room for Parse and Scrappy's cars too, without them having to park in the driveway or on the street. Scrappy pulls inside, and then uses his remote to shut it before tucking it back into his console.

Swoops gave him and Parse remotes for the garage and the front gate, too, once his house was built. They'd been together for a couple years by then.

Swoops is in the kitchen, going through his jacket pockets with a concerned look when Scrappy comes in. But then he looks up at him and drops the jacket on the counter, and smiles. "Hey, Dima."

"Hey, Jeff," Scrappy answers. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I just can't find my phone," Swoops says, heading over to the fridge.

He waves a hand as he opens it and takes out an already-filled glass of water, before bringing it over to Scrappy. "It's all right. I prolly left it in my locker. I'll find it later."

"...Okay," Scrappy says, taking the glass. "Do you wanna go get it?"

"Nah," Swoops tells him. "I want to be here."

Scrappy doesn't want to keep Swoops from doing anything he needs to this afternoon; but if Swoops says it's okay, then Scrappy believes him. "Okay."

"You sure you didn't overheat yourself in the sauna?" Swoops asks seriously.

...Oh. That's probably why Swoops stayed in there, to make sure Scrappy didn't get distracted again and end up making himself sick.

Usually Scrappy keeps better track of how long he's been in the sauna if he messes with the thermostat. He can't afford to get knocked off the roster because of heatstroke--if he did, the coaches would send somebody else out with Swoops and Parse.

And even though Scrappy doesn't say it out loud, because he doesn't want to sound like he's bragging or proud of it, he's the best fighter on the Aces. Whoever took his place on their line might get hurt if they have to step in when somebody starts targeting Parse or Swoops; and somebody always eventually starts targeting Parse or Swoops.

That's probably why Parse was counting outside, too. Scrappy assumed he was just doing it to chirp Swoops, but maybe he was also planning to come in as backup if Swoops hadn't talked Scrappy into leaving in time.

Scrappy thinks about it. He left when he started to feel too hot; and he rehydrated afterward. "...Naw. I'm okay." He shifts the glass between his hands. "--Are you?"

"Yeah, it wasn't that bad," Swoops says.

Scrappy raises an eyebrow as high as he can.

Swoops makes a face at him and changes the subject. "What d'you want to eat?"

Scrappy shifts on his feet, and then goes over to the breakfast bar and sits on one of the stools. "...I dunno. Anything."

"Hm," Swoops says; but he just looks at Scrappy for a few moments before going back to the fridge and getting the takeout menus clipped onto it. Scrappy makes himself drink some water.

He should give a better answer, but all Scrappy has is the truth. He's hungry, but there's nothing he feels like eating right now.

But they have a rhythm for days like these, and Scrappy understands its purpose. He and Swoops settle on what they want to eat afterward, and then Swoops usually makes a juice or protein shake that they split, and then Swoops takes Scrappy up to his bedroom. And then they talk about what Scrappy did, and then Swoops punishes him, and then Swoops cleans him up afterward. And then they come back down and order the food.

Scrappy likes the rhythm. He likes knowing what's expected of him at any given point, even if what's expected is going to be hard. It's . . . familiar? Or, easier? He's never been able to figure out a word that really fits.

But what's expected of him right now is to give Swoops a real answer. Scrappy drinks more water and thinks about it, but all he can eventually come up with is: "...Nothing spicy."

"Okay," Swoops agrees, before separating out a couple menus and clipping them back to the fridge. He spreads out the remaining ones on the counter and looks over them.

After a little while, Swoops says, "...I feel like Chinese. Does that sound good?"

"Yeah," Scrappy agrees.

"Okay." Swoops comes over and sets a menu down in front of Scrappy. "Look through and see what you want, eh?"

Scrappy nods and picks it up. "Okay."

Swoops reaches out and runs a hand slowly over his hair, and Scrappy closes his eyes.

"All right," Swoops says gently. "I'm gonna make a shake. Do you want chocolate or peanut butter?"

"Peanut butter," Scrappy says, because chocolate sounds too sweet today. He knows that Swoops's favorite flavor is vanilla, but Swoops is also the only person Scrappy knows who thinks vanilla whey powder is edible. He never even offers it to Scrappy or Parse anymore; they've chirped him about it too much.

"Okay," Swoops says. He slides his hand down to the back of Scrappy's neck and squeezes once, hard, making Scrappy shiver. And then he pulls away and heads over to the blender.

Scrappy keeps his eyes closed for a long moment. And then he takes a deep breath, and opens them, and focuses on the menu.

Jeff's finished cutting up a banana for the shake when Scrappy finally decides on chicken with cashews and snow peas. He's liked it before, so he figures he'll like it again later, once he's better.

"Sounds good," Jeff says, after Scrappy tells him his choice. "Are you hungry now?"

Scrappy shakes his head. "...Not really."

"Okay," Jeff says. Scrappy guesses he was checking because they usually do this before dinner, not right after working out. "We'll get it later."

"Yeah," Scrappy agrees, pushing the menu down the breakfast bar. He picks up his water again as his phone beeps with a text.

Scrappy pulls it out of his pocket to set it on silent, but the text's banner notice catches his eye as he does. It's from Parse: _Swoops and I are gettin Chinese, you want in?_

Scrappy blinks, and then unlocks his phone.

_??_ he writes back. _I'm with Jeff, we're eating it here._

The bubble appears at the bottom as Parse starts typing, and then it disappears again.

And then Parse writes _Gotta work on your pranks Scraps, he's right here_ before sending a picture of the two of them in his car. Parse is wearing the same clothes he had on this morning; Jeff's in an Aces sweatshirt and making a peace symbol in the passenger seat.

Swoops frowns at the phone, and writes _Me and Jeff are in his house._

The typing bubble appears and disappears and appears again. Then he gets a selfie of Jeff, frowning slightly. _Dimitri this is Jeff, are you joking?_

Scrappy keeps staring at his phone, even as he starts to feel cold.

_No._ he writes.

He lifts his phone toward Jeff. Jeff looks up from where he's running the blender and gives him a little confused smile, before making that peace sign he usually defaults to in photos. Parse and Scrappy have both chirped him for it more times than Scrappy can remember.

Scrappy takes a photo of him and sends it to Parse's phone.

The next text comes back fast: _Get out of there_

Another one comes a couple seconds later. _Come to my apt_ and then _Kent_

_Say your agent's texting bout the game and you gotta answer, you'll come back after_ Parse sends. _Get out now_

"Are you okay?" Jeff--not-Jeff--asks, sounding concerned.

"I...." Scrappy stares at his phone, and then swallows hard. "No. I--my agent."

Not-Jeff cuts off the blender as Parse sends another text: _You gotta go home to get a fax from your agent. Say you'll come back when the paperwork's done_

"What happened?" not-Jeff asks, starting to come over. Scrappy locks his phone. "Shit, are you getting called into a disciplinary meeting?"

"I dunno," Scrappy manages, pushing away from the breakfast bar and standing up. "He say he's faxing me. I gotta go. Home. And get it."

"Okay," not-Jeff says, still looking worried. "Want me to drive you?"

Scrappy shakes his head. "I'll be back."

"Okay," not-Jeff says. He cups a hand around Scrappy's neck again, and Scrappy flinches.

"Hey. Dima," not-Jeff says softly. "It's gonna be okay." He rests his forehead against Scrappy's, and Scrappy tries to hold down a shiver. "Get a report from the ice technician about that spot, so DPS knows it was an accident. We'll talk about it."

Scrappy swallows hard, and then forces out, "I...I hafta go."

"Okay." Not-Jeff lets go and steps back, clearing the path to the garage door. "I'll see you soon."

"Yeah," Scrappy lies, looking down at the floor before heading for the garage.

*

When he pulls into the parking garage of Parse's condo building, Parse is standing by the entrance.

Scrappy pauses the car next to him. Parse pulls open the driver's side door. "I'm gonna park this here," he says, leaning past Scrappy to hang a tag on Scrappy's rearview mirror. "Go to my car, Swoops is on the phone with the GM. He wants to talk to you too."

"Okay," Scrappy says, because he's not sure what's going on, but those instructions are easy to follow. He gets out of his car, and heads over to where Parse's own is illegally parked in a handicap space near the entrance.

Inside Parse's car, Jeff--real Jeff--Swoops--is on the phone. "No, wait, here he is," he says, as Scrappy opens the door and gets in the backseat. Scrappy glances out again, up at where Parse is driving his own car further up the garage before pulling into a space just before the turn of the ramp.

Swoops hits speaker. The Aces' GM says, "Dimitri?"

"Yeah," Scrappy says.

"What happened?" Greg asks.

"Uh...." Scrappy tries to figure out where to start.

Swoops tells him, "He's on a conference call with the curse team."

"Oh," Scrappy says. "Okay."

That makes sense. A curse is the most obvious explanation for what happened.

He glances out the window again. Parse is walking back down the ramp toward them, talking on his phone.

Greg says, "Yes. Dania's on the call with me."

"Hello, Dimitri," Ms. Dania says. There's an echo on her line. "I need you to tell me what happened, from the beginning."

"Okay," Scrappy repeats.

Swoops gives him a concerned look as he hands the phone over to Scrappy. Outside the car, Parse pauses by the driver's door, still on his phone.

*

Scrappy describes all the parts of the afternoon that he's willing to tell a member of the front office: how he and Swoops went back to Swoops' house to eat lunch, and then Scrappy got the text from Parse, and then they figured out that the Swoops that Scrappy was with was a fake, and then he left and met up with Parse and the real Swoops.

Ms. Dania asks him a lot of questions about mannerisms and shadows, and Scrappy answers them the best he can. Swoops was acting like his normal self; and Scrappy's pretty sure he was casting a shadow. He's pretty sure he would have noticed if that were missing.

Swoops gives the GM the gate code for his neighborhood and the alarm code for his house, and then verbally gives consent for the curse team to enter his property to check for malevolent curses and do a full-scale cleansing. Parse and Greg and Scrappy act as the witnesses.

Parse says that he and Swoops and Scrappy will stay together until Greg calls them with an update. The GM tells them 'good,' and then he hangs up to talk to PR in case the imposter does something to damage Swoops's reputation.

Scrappy assumes that they're going to stay in Parse's apartment, so he starts to open the car door. But then Parse says "No.

"Buckle up," he adds. "I got us a hotel."

"Seriously?" Swoops asks; and yeah, that's a little odd. They spend so much time in hotels all season that actively wanting to go to one is kind of weird.

"If she was asking that many questions, this is a bad one," Parse says, starting his car. "You know how to get into my place, I figure it can too."

Parse got cursed several times during his first couple years in the league, until Scrappy finally convinced him to get warded. He needed it: Parse is a well-known elite player who consistently scores on other teams, and also sometimes he's kind of a rat. If he's saying a curse is bad, Scrappy believes him. 

"Okay," he says, pulling on his seatbelt.

Swoops glances back at him from the front seat again, looking more worried, before he turns forward and puts his seatbelt on as well. Parse watches Scrappy in the rearview mirror for a couple seconds before backing out of the parking space.

*

Parse got them a family suite in one of the smaller high-security hotels away from the Strip. It has a full kitchen, a bedroom, and another bed half-hidden behind an opaque glass wall that opens into the living room. There's a foldaway bed in the room too, because of optics.

They all had to go through the lobby to get to the elevators. The Aces are popular enough that a lot of people recognize Parse and Swoops, even if they don't always ask them for photos or autographs. Most people look twice at Scrappy, too, but that's usually because his size and the scar on his face makes them nervous.

Being in a hotel room without luggage is weird. Scrappy stands in the hallway by the kitchen, not really sure what to do.

There's nothing to hang up or put away; and he feels too wired to sit down. But he doesn't want to pace and bug anyone in the room beneath them. Scrappy shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

". . . _Fuuuuuuuuuuck_," Swoops exhales, dropping down on the couch. He starts rubbing his face with his hands. "Fuck. _Ugh_."

Parse forces a laugh. "Yep."

Scrappy shifts slightly, so he can see both of them. Parse leaves his jacket on the seat of one of the kitchen chairs and absently picks up the room service menu on the table, sliding his other hand into his pocket.

Swoops rubs his face harder, and then drops his hands and slumps against the couch, looking over at them. "You ever get hit with something this freaky?"

Parse shakes his head, dropping the menu back on the table. "No. You start gettin' into that doppelgänger shit, it's a misdemeanor. Somebody's gotta be real pissed to try that."

Swoops drags off his sweatshirt and throws it at the couch arm, muttering "Fucking Schooners fans."

Parse looks over Scrappy. "Scraps, your ward still good?"

Scrappy blinks, and then touches the back of his neck. "I think so," he says, before going into the weirdly big bathroom to check.

Parse follows him in, and then lifts the cosmetic mirror sitting on the counter so Scrappy can check on the tattooed ward at the base of his skull in the big mirror. Swoops comes into the doorway a second later and leans against it.

The tattoo's still there and clear, a small black ward inked right where his spine meets his skull. It's pretty easy to see once the mirrors are right, since his hair's never grown back properly in the spot. The curse specialist who did it for him said that that was the best place to apply protection magic: protecting the cranial nerves nullified most body-related curses, which is what usually gets put on guys like him.

Scrappy's only been cursed once, during his rookie season on the Aces' feeder team, after he got in a fight with a guy who deliberately crashed into their goalie. It was a mid-level clumsiness one that started with him breaking his sticks in games and ended with him breaking his wrist before the doctor figured out that he'd been cursed.

After that, one of the Sovereigns' trainers who used to be an enforcer before he retired recommended to Scrappy that he get warded. Scrappy did, because Walczak had been giving him a lot of good advice on how to make it into the NHL on his fists, and how to stay there once he managed to crack the roster. The league had changed from what it was in Walczak's day, but the curses that get laid on agitators and pests are pretty much the same as the ones that got set on enforcers and goons.

It hurts to get the ward touched up every couple years, and it hurt even more to get it done in the first place. But it's worth it. He's protected from all but the highest level of fatal curses, so he doesn't have to worry about himself. He can focus on doing his job protecting his teammates.

Scrappy stops pushing up the hair at the nape of his neck and lets his hand drop. "Yeah," he says. "I got it redone last offseason. It should be good 'til next year."

"Figured," Parse says, putting the mirror on the counter before pushing his hands back in his pockets. "They probably tried to go straight for you, couldn't, and went through Swoops instead."

Parse sounds pretty calm, but his hands are fists inside his pockets.

"Fucking _asshole_," Swoops growls, rubbing his face again. "I'm fuckin' suing them."

"Maybe get warded already," Parse tells him.

"I have **heard** you two complain every time you get them retouched," Swoops says dryly. "Pass."

"It's not that bad," Parse replies.

Parse didn't want to get a ward in a visible spot, because he claimed that as long as nobody knew he was warded, they'd waste their time and energy and money trying to go at him, which served them right. He got it at the base of his spine instead, low enough that it's hidden even in swim trunks. It's not as strong as Scrappy's ward, but it protects Parse's spinal nerves, so it still blocks the majority of curses.

Scrappy's also pretty sure that some of the reason Parse didn't want a cranial nerve ward is because he's a little vain about his looks. Parse also keeps replacing his teeth whenever one gets knocked out, instead of just getting removable replacements that he can take out for games and waiting until retirement to do all his dental work. Convincing him to permanently mess up his hair, even just at the nape in the back, was probably impossible.

But Scrappy's a good friend. So he only occasionally reminds Parse that his ward is basically a tramp stamp, because Swoops called it that first and the term still makes Swoops crack up every time, even as it makes Parse give them a 'why am I friends with you two' face and tell them they're both fourteen.

Swoops shakes his head, still leaning his shoulder against the door frame. "Pass."

"If one person finally figured out they can go through you, more are gonna do it too," Parse says. "Seriously. Think about it, Jeff."

Scrappy shifts on his feet, and then leans back against the counter and braces his hands on it.

Parse looks over at him again for a long moment, before exhaling quietly.

"Alright," he says, looking up and over at Swoops. "I'm gonna get lunch. Lemme know what you want me to bring back, okay?"

"What?" Swoops asks. Scrappy jerks and says automatically, "Don't go."

Parse looks back at him. "I'll just go to the place in here, okay?" he tells Scrappy. "It'll be fine."

"But--" Scrappy shakes his head. "I got separated from Swoops at a red light. And then.... I don't want that happen to you too."

Parse pulls one of his hands from his pocket and bops him lightly on the arm. "Hey. I'm protected, remember Scraps? It'll be okay."

"But...." It's true, but still. "I don't want you going."

"We can just order something," Swoops says. "Have it brought up. You told Greg we'd all stay together until they got ahold of us, anyway."

"Yeah, but...." Parse exhales again, and then pushes a hand over his hair to flatten his cowlick. "I mean, won't it be weird?"

"--Ah," Swoops says quietly. ". . . Probably. But...."

Scrappy frowns. "What's weird?"

"Uh," Parse says, looking back at him. "You started to go down for that--uh, Swoops, right? You were callin' him 'Jeff' in the texts. So--you guys oughta take care of that first, right?"

Scrappy flinches hard.

He did. He didn't think about it before, because everything was happening so fast, but he was going to let that imposter--

Parse and Swoops keep calling it a "thing." He should have known something was wrong.

Swoops curses under his breath and comes into the bathroom. Parse steps aside.

"I'm sorry," Scrappy says, gripping the edge of the counter and staring down at the floor. "I think he was you. I didn't mean to--"

"Hey," Swoops interrupts, gripping his shoulder tight. Scrappy cuts off and takes a slow breath. "It's okay."

Scrappy shakes his head hard.

Swoops cups the back of his head, and Scrappy stops.

"I said it's okay," Swoops tells him. "This curse stuff, it's supposed to throw people off. If it was Parse who got tricked by it, would you be upset at him?"

"No," Scrappy says. Curses make people mess up. Even people as smart as Parse.

Swoops lets go and runs a hand over his hair. Scrappy closes his eyes, and then lets himself slump forward and rest his forehead on Swoops's shoulder. Swoops tells him, "Then you don't get to be mad at yourself, either. The curse tricked you."

Scrappy hesitates.

He trusts Swoops's judgment. That's why they started doing this in the first place. But this time....

Scrappy swallows, and then says, "...But it's not the same."

Swoops lets his hand drop and rests it lightly against the back of Scrappy's neck. Scrappy shivers. "Why not?"

"Because I.... If it was Parse, he would just get lunch. But I was going...." Scrappy shakes his head again. Parse is smart. He would have figured out it wasn't the real Swoops. He and Swoops _did_ figure it out, as soon as Scrappy started talking to them. "I shoulda known."

"Really?" Swoops asks; but his tone is still kind. "You should've recognized something a _professional_ curse team called 'highly unusual'? You been studying curses lately?"

Scrappy shakes his head again. "No. But--"

Swoops squeezes the back of his neck hard. Scrappy cuts off.

"No, Dima," Jeff says. Scrappy exhales and slouches a little heavier against him. "You don't get to blame yourself. The one at fault is whoever cast that curse, which is why I'm gonna bleed that motherfucker outta every cent I can wring from him for this. **You** didn't do anything wrong."

Scrappy takes another slow breath, and then lets it all out and nods against Jeff's shoulder. ". . . Okay."

There's a faint noise to the right, and Scrappy jolts in surprise. A second later, he remembers that Parse is still in the bathroom with them. When he looks over, Parse is shifting past Jeff, trying to leave quietly.

Jeff starts to say something, and then stops. And then he huffs out a breath. "Hey. Parse."

Parse stops and looks at him.

"I know it's gonna be weird," Jeff tells him, shifting around so he can look at Parse. He rests his arm over Scrappy's shoulders. "Do you want to leave?"

Parse exhales slowly and drags a hand over his cowlick again.

". . . Not really," Parse says eventually, raising a self-conscious eyebrow. "You're not warded, and some fucker already tried to go through you to get Scraps. I--yeah." He lifts his shoulders. "I don't wanna go. Just in case, you know?"

Parse lets his shoulders drop with a huff. "Fuck if I know how being here'd stop another curse, but. I wanna stay. If it's okay."

"All right," Jeff says. He looks back at Scrappy. "Dima, how about you and I go talk in that bedroom? Parse'll stay here in the suite. Here with us, just outside the room. That sound okay to you?"

Scrappy nods. If it means Parse isn't leaving them and going out where somebody could get him, that's okay. Parse's ward is good, but not if somebody really wanted to come after him.

\--He didn't just hurt Fearn when he screwed up yesterday. He put Jeff and Parse at risk, too, because everybody knows they're friends with him.

Scrappy clenches his jaw and grips the edge of the counter harder again, trying to hold down a shudder. He messed up so bad.

Jeff tightens his arm around Scrappy's shoulders, urging him forward. Scrappy stands up straight.

"Let's go," Jeff tells him.

Parse backs up out of the way as Jeff guides Scrappy out of the bathroom and over to the kitchen. He hands him the menu. "Pick out what you want for lunch."

"The--" no, that was the other menu. "Okay."

Jeff pauses. "Did you already do this?"

Scrappy nods. "Yeah."

Jeff exhales through his teeth; but then he rubs a hand along Scrappy's back. "Okay. Go ahead and do it again." He pats Scrappy between his shoulder blades. "I know things are a little mixed up, but it's gonna be okay."

"Okay," Scrappy agrees.

He was going to get chicken before, so Scrappy looks for it on the menu. But he only sees it on the caesar salad.

Jeff fishes his phone out of his pocket and holds it out to Parse. "If the GM calls, tell him--I dunno, something. Say we'll be over soon."

Parse takes it. "You're busy havin' an existential crisis over your evil twin, lyin' on the floor freaking out while we talk you down. Got it."

"Ass," Jeff says dryly, giving Parse a look.

Parse just half-grins. "Betcha he'd pay for a ward for you himself after that, huh?"

Jeff elbows him in the side and goes over to Scrappy. He leans against his shoulder to read the menu.

"Chicken caesar salad," Scrappy says, handing it to him.

"That's it?" Jeff asks, giving him a concerned look as he takes it. "What were you going to get--uh, the first time?"

"Chicken with cashews and snow peas."

Parse's gone to the windows, but he looks back over at that. "You were getting Chinese, too?" he asks. "--Wait, was that why you said you were eating it at Swoops' place?"

Scrappy nods. "He wanted Chinese."

Jeff and Parse look at each other for a second.

"...Me too," Jeff says. ". . . What the fuck--what a fucked up curse."

"Everybody's a coward if they think they can get away with it," Parse shrugs, pulling the curtains shut. "...This is a weird one, though. Get your lawyer to add impersonation, too. Slander. Somethin'."

Jeff shakes his head and mutters something under his breath that's too low for Scrappy to decipher. He barely glances at the menu before taking it over to Parse. "You mind doing the order?"

"Nah, sure," Parse says, taking it. "I gotta for me anyway."

"Thanks," Jeff tells him. "Leg of lamb and lamb chop for me, and his salad."

Parse nods. "Gotcha."

Scrappy waits by the table, not sure what to do while Jeff's talking with Parse.

It _is_ kind of weird to have another person here. He and Jeff and Parse have had sex together plenty of times, but that's not what this is.

This has always been him and Jeff. The same way Jeff and Parse, and Parse and Scrappy, have their own things they do together. Parse's never been a part of this.

Scrappy trusts his judgment, too; but Parse doesn't like hurting Scrappy, because he knows Scrappy doesn't like it.

But the alternative is Parse leaving, and that's not okay. So...things are little mixed up. But it'll be okay.

Jeff comes back over, and rests a hand on the back of his neck. Scrappy closes his eyes.

"Let's go," Jeff tells him gently; and Scrappy nods and goes with him into the bedroom.

Once they're inside, Jeff drops his hand and shuts the door behind them. Dima pulls off his t-shirt, and then hesitates.

The way it's supposed to go, he undresses, and then Jeff puts the collar and cuffs on him. And then they talk about what Dima did, and then Jeff punishes him, and then Jeff takes the collar and cuffs off and cleans him up, and then they have dinner.

But today's mixed up. They're not in Jeff's bedroom, and the collar and cuffs are probably still back at Jeff's house, where the imposter was. Outside, he can hear Parse calling in the room service order. Should he undress? Is he still Scrappy in here?

Jeff goes over to the window and shuts the curtains, making the room go dim, before turning back to him.

"Take off the rest of your clothes," Jeff says, and Dima does it. He sits down at the foot of the bed and looks at Jeff.

Jeff comes over, standing in front of him and running a hand over Dima's hair. "How far did you go with--uh, that me, before?"

Dima grips the comforter.

"I'm not upset," Jeff reminds him. "I just need to know where you were at."

"You--he was making a shake," Dima answers. "We picked the food, but it was still blending."

"Okay," Jeff says. "...Do you want to eat first? We can get something from a vending machine."

Dima shakes his head. He's hungrier now than earlier, but the thought of leaving feels weird. It's the wrong bedroom, but they're in it now. Things are mixed up, and it's okay, but he wants to move forward. "I'm okay. --If you are."

"I'm all right," Jeff says. He brushes Dima's hair back again. "Are you ready to start?"

He nods.

"Okay." Jeff runs a hand over his hair one more time.

And then he slides his fingers into it and tilts Dima's head back slightly. Dima closes his eyes and doesn't resist. It feels weird to have his throat bared without the collar protecting it.

Jeff asks, "What did you do yesterday?"

Dima takes a deep breath. And then he makes himself open his eyes and look at Jeff, the way he's supposed to. "I hurt Jonathan Fearn. Bad," Dima answers.

Jeff asks, "What did you do?"

Dima digs his fingers into the comforter. It doesn't feel like the one on Jeff's bed. It's weird not having the cuffs on his wrist. The things that he's used to feeling, that he expects, aren't here.

He can't hear Parse's voice outside the door anymore. But everything else is still wrong, except for Jeff.

Jeff asked him a question. Dima is supposed to answer it. That's what he has to do. Everything else is just...just other things.

He can't hear Parse's voice anymore. Is he still okay? The door's shut. What if something bad's happened to him? Jeff got cursed when Dima wasn't there.

"Dima," Jeff says, pulling on his hair slightly.

Dima takes another breath. He knows he's supposed to answer, but-- "Is Parse okay?"

Jeff looks at him silently for a moment.

"I'm sorry," Dima says. "I know I'm supposed to answer, but--I don't hear him. Someone already got you." It's so quiet out there.

Jeff lets his fingers slide out of his hair. Dima swallows hard. "I'm sorry. But...it's so quiet."

"Okay," Jeff says; and his voice is still kind. Dima didn't mess up too bad. "Let's check."

He takes Dima's hand and pulls him up to his feet. Dima tells him, "Thanks."

"I get it," Jeff says, leading him back to the door. "I'm kinda worried too."

He opens the bedroom door. Parse is sitting propped up against the headboard of the other bed, as far as he can get from the bedroom while still being in view of it. He's doing something on his phone, but he looks up as soon as their door opened. "Uh."

Dima belatedly remembers that he's naked and Jeff's not. It's not weird when it's just them, but now....

"He's fine," Jeff tells him. "See?"

Parse waves slightly at them. "Yeah. I'm fine, Scraps. I'm protected, remember?"

"Not enough," Dima says. "Just spine."

Parse sits up and gives Dima a half-smile. "I mean, yeah, someone could still assassinate me or something," he says, and Dima clenches his fists reflexively at the thought.

Jeff rests a hand on the back of his neck again, and rubs his thumb lightly against his skin.

"**But**," Parse continues. "I don't think anybody cares about hockey _that_ much, man. It's okay, Scraps. I'm good. Promise. Don't worry, okay? I'll be right here."

". . . Okay," Dima says. He makes himself unclench his fists.

Jeff squeezes his neck slightly, and then says "Thanks, Parse," and shuts the door again.

Dima takes a long breath as he goes back over to the bed and sits at the foot of it again. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay to worry about Parse," Jeff tells him. "I am, too. But he's okay. He's here. All right?"

Dima nods. "Yeah."

"Good." Jeff slides his fingers back into his hair, and tilts his head back again. Dima leans into it. "But right now, I need you to focus for me."

"Okay," Dima promises.

Jeff asks, "What did you do?"

Dima rubs his face, and tries to focus.

He never realized how used he was to the cuffs and the collar during this. Dima doesn't like them, not with what they mean--that he made a mistake, that it was a really bad one, one that has to be punished so he can move forward--but doing this without them makes him feel...weird. Unbalanced? But he's sitting down.

He's supposed to focus. Jeff asked him a question.

"I broke his jaw," Dima says. "When I hit him into the boards. I hit him wrong. He hit the edge. He has a concussion." No. "I gave him a concussion."

That's everything that he knows he did. Dima waits.

Jeff nods, and asks, "Why did you do that?"

Dima closes his eyes and digs his fingers into the comforter.

It feels wrong: it's slick. The one on Jeff's bed is soft, worn cotton. Dima pulls his hands away from it and grips his thighs instead, and looks at Jeff again. If he answers without looking at Jeff, then Jeff makes him repeat himself. "He was shadowing you all night," Dima says.

"I know," Jeff says, because everyone knows Fearn was doing that. After Jeff got a second goal, Seattle's coach started sending Fearn's line out every time their own hit the ice. Jeff asks, "Why did you hurt him?"

"To make him stop," Dima says.

Jeff shakes his head.

"If you hadn't hurt him so bad he had to leave the game, he would've kept doing it," Jeff says. "You know that. That was his job that night." Jeff tightens his fingers in Dima's hair slightly, and asks again, "Why did you hurt him?"

Dima closes his eyes and grips his thighs harder, digging his nails in.

Jeff lightly slaps the back of his hand with his free one. Dima lets go and drops his hands back to the comforter.

He's not allowed to hurt himself in here. Not even something that minor. Jeff talks him through what he did wrong, and then Jeff decides what he deserves as punishment. And Dima accepts it, because he trusts Jeff's judgment. "I'm sorry."

"Open your eyes, Dima," Jeff reminds him.

He does. "I'm sorry."

Jeff nods. "Okay." He tips Dima's head back a little more, forcing Dima to lean back and brace himself against the bed. "I asked you a question."

Dima takes a deep breath.

He hates this part. More than the punishment, sometimes. The punishment is because of this part. "...I wanted him to stop hitting you."

Jeff shakes his head again.

"If you hadn't injured him so bad that he left the game, he would've kept doing it," Jeff repeats. "That was his job that night."

He tightens his grip more, pressing his nails against Dima's scalp. Dima closes his eyes and swallows hard as Jeff reminds him, "This is the third time, Dima."

Jeff gives him one more chance, and asks, "Why did you hurt him?"

He hates this part. Dima takes a deep breath, clenching the too-slick comforter in his fists.

And then he exhales slowly, and makes himself open his eyes again, and meets Jeff's, even though it's hard. It's always hard when they're doing this, when Dima has to say these things out loud. That's why Jeff expects it from him.

"I wanted to hurt him for hurting you," Dima says.

Jeff nods and relaxes his grip. Dima swallows hard, wishing that the truth didn't sound so ugly.

Jeff asks, "Is Fearn one of the players who deliberately hurts other guys?"

"No," Dima says, reflexively trying to shake his head. There's only a handful of guys like that in the league, and everybody knows who they are. Fearn isn't one of them.

Jeff asks, "Did he deserve what you did to him?"

Fearn was targeting Jeff enough yesterday that Jeff and Parse and both the defensemen were also starting shoving matches with him by second period. The Aces had to go on the penalty kill at the start of the third when a ref threw Parse in the box for roughing. That was when Dima decided he had to make a point to Fearn, before things got worse.

But he did it wrong. He got too emotional about it, and it made him sloppy. And then he ended up hurting Fearn.

"No," Dima says.

"So what you did was wrong," Jeff says, and Dima flinches even though he knows it's true.

He has to swallow again before he can make himself agree. "Yeah."

Jeff asks, "Why was it wrong?"

Jeff already gave him that answer. It's easier to accept now, away from the adrenaline of yesterday's game and the spike of shame Dima felt this morning when Seattle released Fearn's injury report. "Because he's doing his job," Dima says. "That was his job yesterday."

Jeff nods. Dima exhales slowly.

"You know that was wrong, Dima," Jeff tells him. "That's why you feel guilty about it. You aren't one of those players who deliberately hurts other guys, either." Jeff holds his gaze and asks, "So why did you choose to hurt him?"

Dima closes his eyes briefly to breathe out again, and then looks back up at Jeff. "I get too emotional," he says. "I get angry." Wait. "I got angry." ...Wait. Which one? "I get angry."

"...Do you mean you got angry at him yesterday?" Jeff prompts. "Or do you mean that you're still letting yourself get angry in games? Even though you know that's poor impulse control, and other guys target you for it?"

Dima flinches again.

He rubs his face as he takes another breath. And then he drops his hand back to the comforter, and makes himself meet Jeff's eyes again. "I still get angry in games," Dima says.

No, that's not how Jeff said it. "I'm still letting myself get angry," he says.

Jeff nods again. And then he asks, "How many years have we been correcting your behavior, Dima?"

Too many. Three? Dima bites his lip as he tries to remember when they started. Four? He should know better by now.

Jeff thumbs his lip out of his teeth with his free hand and then taps two fingers against the side of Dima's jaw, a little hard. Dima relaxes it. "I'm sorry."

"That's twice, Dima," Jeff warns him, before tightening his grip in his hair again. "I asked you a question."

He tries to remember. Maybe three and a half years? He knows Jeff won't be mad if he doesn't get the exact amount of time right--the point is that they've been working on this for a long time. But Dima still wants to be close--

Somebody knocks hard on a door outside. Dima jerks up and onto his feet reflexively, hissing when Jeff accidentally pulls out some of his hair before he lets go.

Jeff puts a hand heavily on his shoulder when Dima turns toward the door. "It's room service," he reminds him. "Remember? Parse ordered it for us."

"But--" what if it isn't. What if it's somebody pretending to be? Sometimes people use third parties to carry curses to the intended victim.

Or maybe it really is just the room service person, but still. Sometimes the third person doesn't even know they're carrying it, if the curser is a real bastard.

"Dima," Jeff says, squeezing his shoulder. "Listen."

Outside, Parse's making small talk with the room service person. It's too muffled for Dima to really make out, but it sounds normal.

After a little while longer, they hear the door close again. Parse falls silent. Then there's noise in the kitchen: a bag rustling, the fridge opening.

"See?" Jeff says.

"Is it still Parse?" Dima asks. He knows he's supposed to trust Jeff's judgment, but they can't see into the other room. The other person could be faking everything.

He's being paranoid, and he knows it.

But he thought that imposter was Jeff before. The imposter knew Jeff's gate and house alarm codes. Somebody got that personal information and cast a really, really nasty curse on him. Parse's ward is good, but it doesn't protect against everything.

Jeff exhales slowly.

He pulls his hand away from Dima's shoulder and goes over to the bedroom door, opening it. "Hey, Parse?"

"'Sup?" Parse calls. "Uh, you done? Should I leave the food out?"

"No, we've got a while," Jeff says. "Just checking it was you."

Parse is silent for a moment. And then he says dryly, "I know it's a tramp stamp ward, Scraps, but I promise it actually works."

Jeff stifles a snort of amusement, and Dima reflexively smiles. And then he exhales. "Okay."

Jeff shuts the door again.

Dima sits down on the foot of the bed again as Jeff comes back over. "I'm sorry," he says. "...I know I'm paranoid. But--I'm wrong earlier. I don't wanna be again."

Jeff stops in front of him; but instead of putting his hand back in Dima's hair, he slides his hands into his pockets.

Dima drops his head and stares at the floor. He's messed up too many times.

Jeff's silent for a long time, before telling him, "You're not focusing for me."

Dima swallows hard and nods in agreement. "I'm sorry," he repeats, looking back up. "I'm trying. But...."

He looks back at the floor, and Jeff's shoes. They're the spare sneakers Jeff keeps in his locker at the clubhouse; Dima recognizes the coffee stain on the left one, from that time Carly replaced all the coffee creamer in the club kitchen with alka-seltzers and got all the guys who didn't drink their coffee black mad at him. Why's Jeff wearing those?

Dima shakes his head and pushes that thought away. He keeps getting distracted.

"They cursed you," he says, quietly, because he can't force himself to admit how he failed Jeff any louder than that. "When I wasn't there. They got you. And now.... Parser's here, but I don't see him, hear him."

Jeff hooks a finger under his chin and lifts his head back up, but he doesn't say anything.

Dima digs his fingers into the comforter. "...I'm sorry," he repeats. "I'm try harder. I will try harder."

Jeff keeps looking at him silently for a long time. Dima struggles to keep meeting his gaze, and waits.

Eventually, Jeff pulls his hand away from his chin. But then he brushes it over Dima's hair. Dima blinks.

"...I don't like not being able to see him, either," Jeff says quietly.

Dima blinks again. "Oh."

Jeff exhales and pinches the bridge of his nose, even as he keeps petting Dima's hair. Dima's not sure what to say, so he waits.

Finally, Jeff takes a deep breath and drops his hand, and looks down at him. ". . . Would you be okay with it, if he were in here with us?"

Dima nods. Of course he's okay with being able to see Parse and make sure he's all right.

"Scrappy," Jeff says, cupping the side of his face. "Red. I need you to really think about it. If Parse is in here, he's going to hear what you say to me. And he's going to see me hurt you. Is that something you can be okay with?"

Dima closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and makes himself really think about it.

. . . It took him a while to be able to be as honest during this as Jeff needs him to be. It's still hard. Every time he gives Jeff these ugly parts of himself, Jeff always accepts them without thinking less of him, and then helps Dima work to make himself better. But it's still hard.

To show them to Parse, too....

To tell Parse--his friend, his captain, who trusts Dima to have his back, who thinks Dima's a good person--that sometimes on the ice he genuinely wants to hurt other people....

Dima shudders and bites his lip.

Jeff thumbs it out of his teeth, but he doesn't get disappointed in Dima for breaking the rule a third time. Instead, he asks, "What are you afraid of?"

"What if he hates me?" Dima mumbles.

Jeff blinks in surprise.

Then he starts rubbing a thumb along Dima's temple. "...I can promise you he doesn't hate you because of yesterday, Dima," Jeff tells him after a few moments. "Do you mean, what if he hates you if he hears the things you tell me?"

Dima nods.

Jeff gives him a soft smile. "Are we thinking of the same nihilistic cynic? _That_ Parse?"

"I don't know that word," Dima reminds him.

"Sorry," Jeff says. "Uh...okay, remember how Parse said literally maybe twenty minutes ago, 'Everybody's a coward when they think they'll get away with it'?"

Dima nods. Jeff says, "That's 'nihilistic.' He expects the worst of everything."

Dima clenches the comforter so hard he pulls it up from the sides.

"I don't want him to expect worst of me," he says shakily.

"Hey, hey," Jeff says, cupping the other side of his face as well and holding him still. "Dima. I didn't mean like that. Kent loves you, same as me. Same as you love us. Right?"

He swallows and tries to nod. Jeff doesn't let him, so Dima takes a breath and says, "Yeah."

"Okay." Jeff starts rubbing his thumbs along Dima's temples again. "How many times've you had to clean up and get in a fight after Parse acts like a rat? Can you even count them all?"

"Uh," Dima says.

Parse started getting real bad about that back in 2014-15 before eventually getting mostly better again, so...maybe if he counts all the games with teams that have a player Parse has bad blood with, or a player who Parse always psychologically targets. And then multiply that times five? That would probably be close.

"You don't actually have to count it," Jeff tells him with another smile. "It's roughly 'a whole fucking lot,' yeah?"

"Yeah," Dima agrees. Pretty much.

"He's got a shitty habit of making my life and yours harder on the ice sometimes," Jeff says. "I still love him. You do too, right?"

"Yeah," Dima agrees again.

Jeff pats his face, and then pulls his hands away and runs one over Dima's hair again. "I don't believe Kent'll hate you if you tell him anything you've told me," Jeff promises. "Or that he'll start thinking the worst of you. He loves you too. Okay?"

Dima takes a long, deep breath, and then exhales it slowly. He nods. "Okay."

Jeff ruffles his hair, and then smooths it back down. "That doesn't mean you have to say yes," he says seriously. "I'm sure he won't hate you if you tell him the things you tell me. But you don't have to do that if you don't think you can be okay with it." Jeff holds his gaze. "I need you to tell me honestly if that's going to be farther than you can go."

Dima looks down at the floor, and thinks about it more.

. . . It's going to be as hard as telling Jeff.

Or harder? It'll be like the first time with Jeff again, when Dima was afraid that after he admitted these things--the way that he works himself up to be ready to hurt guys in games, the way that sometimes he gets too angry on the ice and hurts them too much, more than he meant to--Jeff would think he was a bad person. One of those people who just likes being cruel.

When Dima finally managed to make himself tell Jeff what he was afraid of, Jeff talked with him about how he'd been afraid of something similar when he was growing up: how he'd stayed a virgin until his twenties, because he'd been so sure that the fact that he fantasized about rough sex and hurting people meant he was a rapist waiting to happen. So he didn't want to risk having sex with anyone.

And then add in that he'd been struggling with the fact that he preferred guys, Jeff said, so he'd been kind of a mess those years. He told Dima that some days he woke up and couldn't believe he'd ended up playing hockey in a place where he met the two guys who'd not only become his best friends on the team, but who also accepted even that part of him. What were the odds? Probably pretty wildly low.

Jeff told Dima that sometimes he thought about where they all were now, how much work they'd all done to become the people in the relationship they were now in, and it felt like a long, long dream that he was inevitably going to wake up from. And then Jeff would find out that he was still eighteen and drafted by Edmonton. He tried not to take any of this for granted.

Jeff's been doing this with him for about three and a half years, or close to that. After all that time, he still loves Dima. Even with everything he knows about him. And Jeff trusts Dima to keep loving him, even now that Dima knows about the parts of Jeff that Jeff thinks are ugly.

. . . It'll be hard, but Dima trusts Kent like that, too.

He's afraid that Kent will think less of him if he learns about this side of him, but it's . . . in a worst case way? Like it's the absolute worst thing that could happen. But that doesn't mean it's the most likely one. So. . . .

He's pretty sure that he'll be okay with Kent being in here with them.

And he really, really doesn't like not being able to see Kent after somebody came at Jeff with such a nasty curse. Dima wants to focus for Jeff, but it's impossible to stop splitting his attention today. Not when it means he might put Kent at risk of being alone if a curse hits him, too.

He'll be okay with Kent being in here.

"Okay," Dima says. He looks back up at Jeff. "I'll be okay with it."

"...All right," Jeff agrees after a moment. He drops his hand from Dima's head and squeezes his shoulder slightly. "He might say no. And that's okay."

"Yeah," Dima agrees. Of course it is.

Jeff nods. "Okay. Stand up for a sec."

He does. Jeff lifts the comforter, and then tells Dima to sit back down before wrapping it around his shoulders. He wasn't too chilly, but it feels nice. The bedroom is standard-hotel-room-cold--none of them adjusted the thermostat after they entered.

"I'm gonna go talk to Parse," Jeff says. "I want you to think about everything we talked about, before the food came. We'll pick back up when I come back."

"Okay," Dima says.

Jeff leaves, and leaves the door open behind him. "Hey. Kent?"

As soon as he hears Kent answer, Dima doesn't eavesdrop any further. Jeff and Kent start talking quietly in the other room.

He focuses instead. Dima thinks about the things that he and Jeff were talking about before, and he tries to put them all in order and to make sure he has the grammar right. Jeff doesn't mind if Dima's English gets bad when they're doing this, unless he needs to make sure he's understanding something correctly; but Dima still wants to get it right.

After a while, Jeff and Kent fall quiet. Dima can hear other noises for a little while: water running, something that sounds like a cabinet door opening and closing. Something clinks.

It starts to make Dima antsy. It's a lot of sounds, but anybody could be making those. It's not Jeff and Kent's voices.

...He's being paranoid again.

He is, but Jeff was cursed and the curse team still hasn't contacted them, which . . . Dima's not sure how much time's passed, but it seems like long enough that they should have called. Unless it was something really, really bad. That would take longer. So maybe Dima's not being _that_ paranoid.

But Jeff expects him to focus. He expects Dima to be ready to pick up again when he comes back. That's what he's supposed to do right now.

So Dima closes his eyes and exhales slowly, and pulls the comforter a little tighter around himself, and thinks back over everything once more.

After some more time, Jeff says, "Hey, Dima."

"Hey Jeff," he answers automatically, turning around to look at him. Jeff comes into the room, carrying a bowl and a washcloth.

Kent's behind him.

Kent comes in too, and then hesitates by the closet. Jeff sets the bowl and washcloth on the nightstand, and then shuts the door and locks it. Kent startles faintly.

Jeff must see it in his peripheral vision, because he turns toward him. "Are you okay with that?"

"Yeah," Kent says. "...This what you guys usually do?"

"Yeah," Jeff agrees, picking up one of the big decorative pillows at the head of the bed.

Kent nods. "Okay. It's cool. Uh...." He looks briefly at Dima, and then around the room. "I stay dressed, too?"

"Take off your shoes," Jeff tells him, as he strips off the pillowcase. "We'll be on the bed eventually."

"Alright," Kent says, toeing off his sneakers and kicking them into the still-open closet.

When Kent looks at him again, Dima says, "Thanks. For coming in."

Kent shifts on his feet, and then slides his hands in his pockets and huffs out a laugh.

"Honestly, Scraps, not bein' able to see you guys after all that shit was kinda freaking me out," Kent says sincerely. "But I told myself not to be weird. But--yeah. Same. Thanks for lettin' me."

Huh. Dima wasn't the only one paranoid. That's . . . 'better' doesn't seem like the right word, but it's still nice to know.

"...Uh," Dima says, before looking over at Jeff.

Jeff looks up from where he's flipped the pillowcase inside out and started folding it up into a strip. "Yeah?"

"Is it weird nobody's called?" Dima asks. "Is it been a while?"

Jeff pauses. "Yeah...." He looks over at Kent. "Should it be takin' this long?"

"It ain't great," Kent drawls.

Then he shrugs. "The curse team said it was 'unusual.' I figure, it probably realized Scra--Dima figured out it was fake and fled. So maybe they had to split up. One team to track it down, another to stay and cleanse your place. That's gonna take a while."

Jeff drops his head with a weary groan.

Kent raises an eyebrow. "Shouldn't've built it so big, man."

Jeff gives him a look over his shoulder. "_Some_body had to have a place big enough for team parties," he replies. "Since the **captain** refuses to move out of his bachelor pad that's way too small."

Kent shrugs again with a little smile. "Hey, I throw a party the start of every year," he points out. "An' every year the condo management comes down on my ass about noise complaints. Not my fault the GM can't put together a team that doesn't turn Uno and Mario Kart into a brawl."

"Uh-huh," Jeff says dryly. Dima bites down a snicker, and then remembers the rules and lets his lip loose again.

Jeff just shakes his head. He folds the pillowcase one more time, and then comes around the bed and stands in front of Dima again.

"Okay," Jeff says. "I should've thought of this earlier, but I'm gonna use this as your collar today. All right?"

"Okay," Dima agrees, standing up.

He tries to hold down a shiver as he shrugs off the comforter. He got used to the warmth.

"Are you cold?" Jeff asks, touching the pad of his thumb to the underside of Dima's chin. Dima tips his head back to make it easier for Jeff to get to his neck.

"Kinda," he says.

Jeff wraps the pillowcase around the back of his neck, and then lets one end drape over his shoulder as he cups a hand to Dima's cheek. "Well," Jeff says, rubbing a thumb against his cheekbone, "that's a good reason you shouldn't be stubborn. Like earlier."

Dima swallows, and nods in agreement.

Jeff ties the pillowcase around his throat, and then spends a while making displeased noises and triple-checking that it's not too tight.

"You're all right?" he asks again, tugging the fabric a little looser around Dima's neck with a finger.

"Yeah," Dima repeats. It doesn't feel any tighter than the real collar. The knot Jeff tied presses against his throat a little, but not enough that he can't talk or breathe normally. "I'm okay."

The fabric feels weird--even inside out, it's still a little slick from the pattern on the other side. He's used to the broken-in leather of the collar, and the cuffs. But it's okay.

In the side of his vision, Dima can see Kent shifting on his feet again, watching him and Jeff before looking away at other things in the room. And then looking back at them again.

...It _is_ weird to have Kent here, in the same room as them, for this. Dima doesn't want to change his mind, and he understands that it's going to be hard when he and Jeff start talking again. But it's also just kind of weird.

Jeff and Kent both talk about some of the things they do together with Dima sometimes, because it's not like this thing between him and Jeff. Neither of them mind Dima knowing about those: it's just things they do without him, because Jeff and Kent both like rougher sex than Dima does.

It's just kind of weird, because Kent pushes back hard against being restrained by Jeff. He always pushes back in general, with Jeff.

Jeff teases Dima sometimes about the fact that Kent always makes Jeff work hard to put him down, but he'll go along easy without resisting for Dima. Because--according to Jeff--Kent very much has a type, and that type is 'guys bigger and stronger than him.'

Dima felt bad about it at first, until Jeff made it clear he really was just teasing and he didn't mind. Dima's never done anything special to make Kent not want to push back; he just does things he knows Kent likes. Kent likes being pushed against walls and onto his knees, and being held down, and sucking dick, and having his hair pulled.

Dima's not sure why Kent never smarts off to him the way he does to Jeff. Especially since Jeff is so good at giving Kent what he wants: he can make Kent go shaking and so hard it looks like it hurts, just by talking.

It's odd, but it is what it is. It's not like Kent flat-out fights Jeff. He lets Jeff restrain him if Jeff works hard for it, or if Dima helps; and he lets Jeff do it without any pushback if he wants to do something nice for him.

Like what he did for Jeff's last birthday. They had to wait until they got back from the roadie and had a free afternoon, but when they had the time, Kent let Jeff use almost a whole roll of twine to tie him up in a super-complicated full-body pattern of knots with some Japanese name Scrappy can't remember. The way Jeff tied him let Kent walk carefully and kneel, but he couldn't move his arms or sit down real well. Kent had to lie on the couch across Jeff and Dima's laps while they watched TV, and let them feed him dinner, and let Jeff take care of him in the bathroom.

Kent let Jeff do all that, because he knew Jeff wanted to. And he let Dima be there too, because he knows Dima likes being someone Kent can turn to and rely on, if Jeff starts talking too mean.

Kent said 'green' the couple times Jeff checked in with him. But Dima could tell from the way that Kent kept looking humiliated that afternoon, and the way that Jeff had to keep talking softly to him to keep Kent in the right mindset, that Kent feels a lot differently about being restrained than Dima does.

Kent likes being pushed around and held down during sex, but he likes hands, not physical restraints. Jeff explained it once, when Dima asked him why Jeff actively checks in with Kent but trusts Dima to speak up if he needs to.

Jeff pointed out that Kent's always been good at smooth-talking other people, and he can be a pretty dirty fighter if things get bad, so he feels comfortable letting himself enjoy being pinned. But inanimate restraints that he can't talk or fight his way out of push the edge of Kent's limits, the same way that wearing a gag is a soft no for him.

But Kent trusts Jeff enough that he lets Jeff use restraints sometimes, anyway. So Jeff always takes extra care when Kent lets him.

(Also, Jeff added, Kent still has a bad habit of trying to take on more than he can handle. Dima knows better, so Jeff can trust him more.)

Dima doesn't like being restrained either, because having to put on the collar and cuffs means that he made a serious mistake. But he does it willingly, because he knows Jeff is going to punish him so that Dima can stop thinking about the mistake he made, and start focusing on how to doing better in the future instead.

This probably feels weird for Kent, too, to watch Jeff just expect Dima to let him put a collar on him, and for Dima to do it. Jeff never does anything like this to Dima when it's the three of them together.

Jeff tugs the knot away from his adam's apple one more time with a frown, loosening the fabric a little more. And then he pulls his finger out.

"Okay," he says. "Since we don't have your cuffs either, Kent's going to do that part."

Dima blinks, not really sure how that's going to work. "Okay."

Jeff reaches behind him and drags the comforter off onto the floor next to the bed. "Sit down."

Dima does. Jeff runs a hand over his hair, and looks at Kent. "Come over here and sit down behind him. And, Kent," he adds, "I need you to start now."

Kent exhales through his teeth; but he pulls his hands out of his pockets and nods.

Dima starts to ask what that means before reflexively stopping himself. If they're starting now, then he doesn't want to distract himself again. He needs to focus.

But then Jeff looks back at him. "Yeah?"

"'Start'?" Dima replies, as Kent crawls onto the bed and settles down behind him, letting his legs dangle over the foot of the bed along Dima's own. He starts to feel warmer again with Kent's heat against his back and thighs.

Kent wraps his hands around his wrists. Dima closes his eyes and takes a breath.

"Kent likes to be a brat," Jeff says, sounding like he's smiling a little. Then he goes serious again, and brushes Dima's hair back once more. "But this isn't like when it's the three of us, eh? This is about you."

It feels selfish to agree with that. It's about Jeff, too.

But it's Jeff doing something for him, because he wants to help Dima be better. So. Dima nods.

Jeff pushes Dima's bangs away from his forehead. The hair product he wears must be completely wrecked by now, but that's okay. Dima knew that was going to happen as soon as Jeff put his hand on his shoulder in the changing room and asked him to come to his house.

"Kent's in here this time, because you and I both had a hard time focusing. Because we were worried about him," Jeff says. "And he was worried about us. But this is still about you. So Kent's going to trust me, and stay quiet, because this isn't about him. It's about you."

Dima blinks. "Oh."

Jeff pauses, and then deliberately looks over Dima's shoulder. "Got any last chirps you need to get out?" he adds dryly.

After a second of silence, Dima says, "He's making a face at you." He doesn't need to be able to see Kent behind him. He knows Kent's doing it.

"He absolutely is," Jeff agrees, half-smiling. "And now he's going to stop, so I can focus on you."

Kent exhales exaggeratedly behind him. Dima tries to hold down a shiver at Kent's breath on his back.

But then Kent says seriously, "Yeah. Okay."

Dima tilts his head toward him. "Thanks."

Kent squeezes his wrists briefly. Dima takes another breath, and then faces forward again and looks up at Jeff.

Jeff looks past him again, at Kent. "It's okay if he moves his arms around for now," he says. "Don't do anything to stop him if he does. But don't let go, either."

Kent's chin bumps against Dima's back briefly as he nods. "Alright."

Jeff looks back at Dima, and asks, "Ready to start?"

Dima nods. "Yeah."

"Okay." Jeff runs a hand over his hair one more time.

And then he slides his fingers into it and tilts Dima's head back. Dima doesn't resist. Behind him, Kent shifts a little so Dima's head doesn't bump into his face.

Jeff asks, "What did you do yesterday?"

Dima starts to answer.

And then it's like he feels Kent's presence and weight behind him, his fingers around Dima's wrists, way more intensely than he did a couple seconds ago. Jeff asked him question, and Dima has to answer--and then Kent's going to hear it. Kent's going to learn what kind of person he really is.

Dima shudders hard.

Jeff cups the side of his face with his free hand. "You knew this was going to be hard, Dima," he reminds him. "You told me it was in your limits."

Jeff waits for a little bit. When Dima still can't make himself answer, Jeff asks, softer, "Did you overestimate?"

Dima swallows hard, and feels the weird fabric knot of the temporary collar press against his throat.

He said he could do this. Kent was there on the ice during yesterday's game. He knows what Dima did. This isn't the hard part.

"I didn't," Dima promises. He swallows again, and then answers, "I hurt Jonathan Fearn bad."

Jeff asks, "What did you do?"

"I broke his jaw, and gave him a concussion," Dima says.

Jeff asks, "How'd you do that?"

Dima takes another deep breath, just to feel the press of the temporary collar again. "I hit him into the boards wrong. By the slushy spot. So he hit his head on the edge."

Jeff asks, "Why did you do that?"

"He was shadowing you all night," Dima says.

Kent's fingers tighten on his wrists for a second. But then Dima feels Kent's shirt buttons shift against his back as he takes a breath, before Kent loosens his grip.

Jeff shakes his head. "We covered this, Dima," he replies, and his voice is a little harder. Dima looks down at the floor. "That was his job that night. You aren't giving me the truth."

Jeff repeats, "Why did you hurt him, Dima?"

Dima swallows hard again.

Jeff's right; he isn't. He's on his final chance to answer honestly, before Jeff gets disappointed with him again. But....

He knew this would be hard.

The alternative is Kent leaving. And that means Dima will have to go back to not knowing if he's okay, and back to not focusing for Jeff. He'll go back to messing up. If he wants to be able to know that Kent's here, safe, then he has to keep talking with Jeff.

Dima takes a slow, deep breath. And then he says quietly, "I wanted to hurt him for hurting you."

Kent doesn't move at all behind him. Dima doesn't know what that reaction means.

Jeff cups his free hand against his cheek and rubs his thumb against Dima's scar gently. Dima exhales heavily and lets himself sink into it.

After a few moments, Jeff pulls his hand away. Dima takes another breath and sits up again.

"I'm glad you have my back, Dima," Jeff tells him softly. "But what you did was wrong."

Dima swallows again, and nods as much as he can. "I know."

Jeff asks, "Why was it wrong?"

Dima takes another long breath, and dredges up the sentences he worked out while Jeff and Kent were talking in the other room earlier.

"Because Fearn isn't a guy who hurts other guys on purpose," Dima says. "He didn't deserve what I did. Because he was doing his job yesterday."

Jeff nods, and cups his cheek again. Dima leans into it it as Jeff rubs his thumb over his cheekbone and scar once more.

He knows this is cheating, kind of. He didn't earn Jeff being gentler with him because he answered honestly from the start. He was stubborn the first time.

But Kent still hasn't really moved behind him after anything Dima's said so far, and he's trying hard not to think about what that might mean. And it's easier to do that if he just doesn't think and lets himself sink into Jeff's rewards.

And if Jeff didn't think he deserved this, he wouldn't do it. Dima knows that. Jeff only gives Dima what he deserves in here, bad and good.

So Dima quits telling himself that this is cheating, and just leans into Jeff's hand.

Jeff eventually pulls it away again. Dima breathes deep and straightens up.

"You know what you did was wrong, Dima," Jeff reminds him. "You aren't a guy who goes out planning to hurt other guys either."

Jeff asks, "So why'd you choose to hurt Fearn?"

Dima squeezes his eyes shut, and takes several breaths. Jeff waits.

Finally, he opens his eyes and meets Jeff's gaze. "I still let myself get angry in games," Dima says.

Jeff nods.

And then he asks, "How many years've we been correcting this behavior, Dima?"

". . . Three and a half," he forces out.

Jeff cups the side of his face again, and this time Dima almost collapses into his hand. Behind him, Kent shifts his weight to help brace him.

"That's a long time," Jeff says.

"I know," Dima chokes out. "I'm sorry. I'm try. But I don't get that right. I keep fuck up."

"I want you to look at me when you answer, Dima," Jeff reminds him.

He makes himself look up at him again. "I'm sorry."

"You're the Aces' agitator, Dima," Jeff tells him calmly. "And our team plays a heavy game. That's _why_ other teams target me and Kent so much, because we aren't power forwards, like you or other guys. That's why we need you on our line.

"Every time you step on the ice, you have to make a lot of hard decisions," Jeff says. "I know that, Dima."

Jeff brushes his thumb over Dima's scar once more. "I'm not angry at Fearn for targeting me yesterday," Jeff tells him. "Can you tell me why?"

Jeff started multiple shoving matches with Fearn yesterday. ...But that's on-ice adrenaline. It's not the same thing as Jeff actually disliking him.

Dima thinks about it. Jeff doesn't ask him questions unless he believes Dima knows the answer.

"...Because it was his job?" Dima asks.

Jeff nods.

"He wasn't doing it because he's a guy who just wanted to hurt me," Jeff says. "He was doing it because his coach told him to. The same way Coach sends you out sometimes, if he wants you to teach a guy on the other team a lesson. Because that guy's pulling too much shit and the refs're ignoring it.

"Hitting Fearn because he was targeting me wasn't wrong. That's your job," Jeff reassures him.

Then he pulls his hand away. Dima sits up straight again. "How you did it--_why_ you did it--is what's wrong," Jeff tells him. "You hurt him because of something his coach ordered him to do. That's not okay, Dima."

Dima swallows, and nods.

"You hurt him, because you let yourself get angry for real in the game," Jeff continues. "Even though you know that was wrong. Even though you know doing that makes you feel guilty."

Dima tries to nod again, but this time Jeff tightens his grip in his hair. So Dima says, "Yeah."

"That's the main reason why what you did was wrong," Jeff says. "Will you tell me the others?"

Dima knows the worst reason, but even thinking about saying it out loud makes him feel ashamed. He tries to think of anything he can say first instead, to put it off.

They didn't lose the game. They took one more penalty in the third period, but that was because the new guy the Schooners' coach was sending out to shadow Jeff got in a fight with one of their defensemen and the ref only put their guy in box for roughing.

Jeff prompts, "After Fearn had to leave the game, did I stop getting checked?"

"No," Dima says. "Tobin was on you."

Jeff asks, "And what did he do?"

"Oh," Dima says, catching on. "He went after everybody. He was angry I hurt Fearn."

Jeff nods. "You made the rest of the game harder for everybody, because Seattle got pissed at us," he says. "And the refs ignored everything they did, because they were 'letting us play.'"

Dima flinches back and then squeezes his eyes shut when he hits Kent's chest. "I'm sorry."

"Open your eyes, Dima," Jeff reminds him.

He takes another breath, and does.

Jeff asks, "Why else was it wrong?"

Dima knows this answer. He figured it out before they even started; but saying it makes his face heat with shame. "I put you and Kent at risk. From whoever got mad at me and cursed you."

Kent jolts behind him, tightening his grip hard around Dima's wrists. 

Dima shudders. Kent exhales, and relaxes his hands.

"--Huh," Jeff says, surprised.

Dima blinks. Was that the wrong answer? How could it be?

Jeff relaxes his grip too, and rubs his thumb against Dima's hairline for a moment. "We're going to come back to that," he says. "What's the other reason?"

Dima thinks about it, but he comes up blank. He shakes his head. "I don't know."

Jeff gives him a long look, and then exhales slowly.

Dima digs his fingers into the sheet, because Jeff's disappointed now. He hates messing up so bad that Jeff feels like that--what did he do wrong?

"We talk about this every time, Dima," Jeff says evenly. "I really don't like that you still refuse to remember it."

"I'm sorry," Dima tells him automatically.

"I don't want you to be sorry," Jeff says, and Dima looks down at the floor. "Look at me."

He does. Jeff tells him, "I want you to start remembering this reason. I want you to start trusting me that it's important."

"I do," Dima swears. "I trust you, Jeff."

"Then you need to prove it," Jeff tells him. "And start _remembering_."

"I'm sorry," Dima says. And then he corrects himself. "I will."

Jeff just looks at him.

Dima grips the sheet tighter. "I will," he repeats. "I promise."

Jeff keeps looking at him silently for another long moment. Dima forces himself to hold his gaze, and not to look away again.

Finally, Jeff says, "Okay."

Dima exhales reflexively, slumping forward as some of the tension leaves him.

Jeff slides his hand out of his hair and cups the back of his neck above the collar. Dima sits up straight again.

Jeff squeezes hard, and tells him, "The other reason that lettin' yourself get angry in a game and hurting another guy is wrong is because now, the refs are gonna ignore attacks on you. **Again**.

"The next time some _actual_ asshole decides to board you, or crosscheck you in the neck, or elbow you in the head, the refs are gonna shrug it off, because they don't know you," Jeff says. "They'll just think, 'That goon deserved it.'"

Kent's grip is tight around Dima's wrists again. Dima tries to hold still.

Jeff lets go of his neck, and takes a breath before dropping his hand to Dima's side. In his peripheral vision, Dima sees Jeff poke the back of Kent's hand.

Kent loosens his grip a moment later.

Jeff slides a hand back into his hair, and tilts Dima's head forward until it's easier to meet his eyes.

"And when they do that, then Kent and I gotta decide whether to keep playing, or to go after the guys who're getting away with hurting you, and risk taking a penalty and hurting the team," Jeff finishes. "And that _sucks_, Dima. I hate havin' to make that choice."

"I'm sorry," Dima says.

"I don't want you to be sorry," Jeff reminds him. "I want you to do better."

Dima tries to nod, can't, and says, "I will."

"Good," Jeff says.

Then he asks, "You talked to Aaron about your impulse control?"

"Yeah," Dima says, because the head coach talked to him about it privately after the game yesterday. "And Earl. We watched tape about what was wrong. What I did wrong."

"Good," Jeff repeats, nodding. He eases his hold on Dima's hair completely, until he's just resting his palm on the top of Dima's head.

"You've gotten better, Dima," Jeff reminds him, gentler. "It's been three and a half years, but when was the last time we had to do this?"

"Last May. Finals," Dima answers. "Game three."

Dima took a four-minute double minor and a ten-minute misconduct penalty during that game. The Aces' penalty kill team and their goalie worked incredibly hard and managed to prevent the Sharks from scoring during it; but they were ground down afterward. The Sharks scored a minute after the double-minor ended. They lost that game.

They lost the semifinals in game six. The Sharks went on to face the Blues; the Aces went home.

Jeff and Dima talked after game three, because Dima was a wreck after sitting in the penalty box and watching his teammates exhaust themselves to clean up after his mistake, and then watching the Sharks take advantage it of once everyone was worn out.

But Jeff delayed Dima's punishment, because the playoffs' schedule didn't give them enough time for Dima to recover from what he'd earned. It wasn't until after offseason had begun, after the team had cleaned out their lockers and done their exit interviews, that Jeff and Dima talked about it again and Jeff gave him a caning.

He only did it to Dima's butt and thighs, because Dima had separated his shoulder in game five and Jeff didn't want to risk doing anything to his upper body. He didn't even hook Dima's cuffs to his collar, or to the straps Jeff sometimes uses to restrain Dima to the bed if he knows a punishment is going to hurt bad enough that Dima will reflexively fight it no matter how hard he tries to hold still and accept it. He just piled up a bunch of pillows on the mattress and told Dima to lie on his stomach on them and rest his arms comfortably, and to hold as still as he could.

He had Dima count to fifty for that punishment. It was the highest he's ever had to go.

It had been a bad mistake. The Shark Dima hit had come back into the game after getting stitches, but that didn't help. Dima had still forced his teammates to wear themselves out because of his bad choices, when he was supposed to be the one who looked out for them.

"Now it's November," Jeff says. "That's pretty good. I know you're trying hard to be the good person you want to be."

Dima looks down again, staring at Jeff's shoes and the floor, and tries not to shiver at the compliment.

"I know you're trying hard, Dima," Jeff tells him softly. "Even with the hard choices you have to make every game. You're working on it."

Dima swallows hard, and then does it again. And then he's able to say, "Thank you."

Jeff taps a finger against his head. Dima looks back up again. "Thank you."

"I said it because it's true," Jeff reminds him.

Dima rubs a hand over his face. He accidentally pulls out of Kent's grip when he does; but Kent catches up a second later, and curls his fingers back around Dima's wrist. Dima nods. "Okay."

Jeff strokes a hand over his head, and then rests his hand a little heavier on top of it again. "But you slipped up bad yesterday."

Dima shudders and drops his hand, and curls his fingers around the edge of the mattress. "I know."

"But before we get to that," Jeff says. "Why do you think you put me and Kent at risk?"

Dima looks back at the floor, feeling his face heat again. He shuts his eyes, and takes a long breath, and then takes another one.

And then he forces himself to open his eyes and look up at Jeff to answer, like Jeff expects him to do.

"You got cursed because of me," Dima says, clenching his fingers into the mattress until he's pulling up the sheet. "'Cause everybody knows we're friends."

Jeff shakes his head. "That wasn't your fault."

"But--"

"No, Dima," Jeff tells him, tugging on the collar with a quick jerk. Dima stops arguing.

"That wasn't your fault," Jeff repeats. "Curses are what people who're too cowardly to say something in person do. The _only_ person at fault is the person who actually cursed me. Don't validate their shitty behavior by taking blame for it."

Dima takes a deep breath, and then exhales it slowly. "...Okay."

"Good," Jeff says, before brushing his hand over Dima's hair silently a few times.

Dima closes his eyes, and lets himself just focuses on the feeling of everything around him: Jeff's hand, gentle, pushing away the stray hairs that were tickling Dima's forehead; Kent's warmth and weight behind behind him, sinking the mattress down. The chill of the room; the scratchy carpet under his feet and the starchy sheet against his butt and thighs; the oddness of the makeshift fabric collar and Kent's hands as cuffs. This is the pause Jeff always gives him, before the next part.

And then Jeff takes a slow breath and pulls his hand away. Dima shudders preemptively.

Then he makes himself sit up straight again and look at Jeff. He lifts his chin as soon as Jeff hooks a finger under it.

"You slipped up again yesterday," Jeff tells him steadily. "Really bad. So I'm gonna correct you now, so that you can remember to do better in the future."

Dima shudders again as his gut clenches. Jeff always tells him that, before he starts Dima's punishment.

He nods. "Okay."

"All right." Jeff pulls his hand away. "Stand up."

Dima does. Kent shifts forward on the bed to keep a hold of his wrists.

Jeff pats Kent's shoulder briefly. "Let go for now," he says. "Go sit against the head of the bed."

Kent pulls away. Dima can hear him shifting back, and then the sound of something thumping to the floor. The pillows?

"Keep one of them," Jeff tells Kent. "For back support. This is gonna take a while."

Dima shudders again. Jeff rests a hand on his shoulder and rubs his thumb against his skin.

There's a little more rustling. And then Jeff says, "Okay, Dima. Lie down on your back."

The bed's king-sized, so there's enough room. Jeff moves along the side of it, telling Kent to shift over and rearranging Dima so that his head's resting on Kent's crossed ankles. Dima goes where he's moved.

"This okay?" Jeff asks. He's looking at Kent, not Dima, so Dima just keeps focusing on breathing evenly.

"Yeah," Kent says.

Dima finally remembers that Kent broke his ankle years ago. He shifts his weight to the left, trying to get it off of Kent's bad side.

Jeff rests a hand on Dima's chest. Dima closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, and makes himself hold still.

"All right," Jeff says. "Move when you need to. Just give me a heads up first."

"Alright," Kent says.

Jeff pauses. And then he says seriously, "Kent. Don't make me split my attention. If it starts to hurt, say you want to move. Let me focus on Dima, okay?"

Kent huffs out a breath. But then he promises, "Okay. ...Yeah. I will."

"Okay," Jeff says.

"Hold his arms down next to his throat," he adds. "I was gonna tie him to the bed for this, but that's out. So keep 'em there, like they're locked to his collar. Even when he starts thrashing."

Dima shudders again. He knew this punishment was going to be hard, but hearing Jeff tell Kent how rough it's going to be....

"What are you gonna--" Kent starts; but then he cuts off, and takes a long breath.

Kent exhales through his teeth, and then tugs on Dima's wrists. Dima doesn't resist. He lets Kent press his arms down on the mattress above his shoulders, next to Kent's shins.

"That's good," Jeff says. And then he takes his hand away from Dima's chest, before resting both of them on Dima's thighs.

Dima immediately spreads his legs wide. Jeff needs Dima to give him a lot of room: he tore up his knee a few years back, and even after the reconstructive surgery and the months of physical therapy, Jeff has a hard time kneeling or sitting crosslegged for long. He usually shifts around a lot if he sits on the bed with Dima to punish him, so he needs Dima to give him enough space for it.

Jeff pats his left thigh. And then he pulls his hands away and lays one back on Dima's chest, over his heart.

"Are you ready?" Jeff asks.

Dima swallows hard.

So many things are different. His wrists are being held down by Kent, instead of being in his cuffs. The collar he's wearing isn't the one he and Jeff have broken in over the years. His head is resting on Kent's leg, not the mattress. Kent is here, instead of it being just Jeff and Dima. A lot of things are strange.

But those are all just other things. The only thing Dima's expected to do right now is accept his punishment, and learn from it.

Dima nods. "Yeah."

"Good." The mattress shifts as Jeff settles heavier between his legs.

Dima shivers again, and almost bites his lip before he remembers the rules. He can keep his eyes shut now if he wants, unless Jeff wants him to look at him; but he's never allowed to hurt himself in here. Jeff is the one who decides what he deserves, not Dima.

Jeff rests two fingers against his calf. "You're going to count to one hundred, Dima."

Dima inhales sharply before he can stop himself.

And then he swallows heavily, and squeezes his eyes shut tighter, and makes himself nod. "Okay."

Jeff pinches his calf hard, twisting the skin roughly before letting go. Dima jerks.

Jeff keeps his fingers on the same spot. Dima swallows again, and makes himself say, "One."

Jeff moves to a new place on his calf, and pinches hard with a twist again. Dima tries harder to hold still this time. "Two."

"--Fuck," Kent says abruptly. "A hundred's too--"

And then he cuts off, and hisses out a breath. His fingers are tight around Dima's wrist.

Jeff keeps his fingers on Dima's calf, moving higher up toward his knee. But he rests his other hand on Dima's chest again.

"I know one hundred's a lot," Jeff says. "But you messed up really bad, Dima. So this has to be really hard for you, so you won't do anything like that again."

"Yeah," Dima agrees. He knows this. Jeff only gives him what he deserves in here.

Is he fighting too much? Is that why Jeff's reminding him?

"I'm sorry," Dima says, making himself open his eyes and lift his head to look at Jeff. "I'm hold still. I'll be better."

"Ah," Jeff says.

He pats Dima's chest. "You aren't being stubborn, Dima," he says. "I know you trust me. I'm explaining why I'm doing this for Kent."

Jeff rubs his skin above his heart as Kent loosens his hold on Dima's wrists. "I know you trust me, Dima," Jeff tells him. "But this is Kent's first time in here. Remember how you needed me to explain things, the first few times?"

Dima nods.

Jeff pats his chest again. "I'm saying this for Kent," he repeats. "You're doing what you're supposed to."

Okay. If it's for Kent, and not because Dima's messed up again, that's okay. He rests his head back on Kent's leg. "Okay."

Jeff presses his fingers a little harder against Dima's calf, and waits. Dima nods.

He manages to hold still during the next harsh, twisting pinch this time; but he can't help clenching his teeth. Dima forces himself to relax his jaw and says, "One."

"No," Jeff corrects. "Three."

"Three," Dima repeats.  
  
  
It doesn't hurt too much at first. Jeff always has to balance what Dima deserves with what he can actually do during the season. Especially since they have a game tomorrow. Jeff always picks punishments that won't seriously affect Dima's ability to play, and that don't leave too many marks.

But Dima's never had to go up to a hundred before.

It doesn't hurt too much, at first. But Jeff keeps going steadily, working up Dima's right leg before moving over to his left. Dima kicks the mattress reflexively when Jeff pinches the side of his knee, and then makes himself lay back down on the bed and hold still. "Seventeen."

Jeff keeps moving methodically up Dima's body, along his hips and torso and then down his arms. Every previous pinch aches dully, and the aches keep layering on top of each other: the newest one, after each time that Jeff twists his skin hard; and under that the last few, still stinging from Jeff's work; and under those, all the previous ones, which ache a little more every time Dima jerks or kicks before he can stop himself.

There's no pattern to it. Or maybe there is, but Dima isn't trying to figure it out. He isn't supposed to be trying to predict what Jeff's going to do. All he's supposed to do right now is accept this, and count.

"Forty-five," Dima gasps, after Jeff pinches his forearm below his elbow and twists it hard. Jeff tells him to turn over.

Jeff helps him do it, and then rests a hand on Dima's back as Dima catches his breath. Kent shifts around on the mattress, and then curls his fingers back around the wrist he let go of so Dima could turn over.

"Tighter," Jeff says. Dima blinks and tries to understand.

"Don't go easy on him, Kent," Jeff orders. Okay. He wasn't talking to Dima. "That won't help."

Kent hisses out a breath. But then he grips Dima's wrists tight and pushes them hard against the bed.

Dima exhales slowly and makes himself sink down into the mattress. He closes his eyes tighter when all the pinches ache a little more as he presses on them.

Jeff takes his hand away from the small of his back and touches a spot on Dima's shoulders, and waits.

Dima takes another breath. And then he nods, and holds himself still, and waits for the next pinch.

By the time Jeff's worked his way down Dima's arms and over his back and moved on to his butt and thighs, all the dull aches are starting to blur together and really hurt. Kent's had to put his weight even harder onto Dima's wrists to keep them pinned to the bed.

Dima kicks the mattress hard when Jeff pinches the inside of his knee. And then he presses his face to the mattress to choke down a curse and tells himself to be better.

Jeff keeps his fingers in the same spot, and Dima finally realizes that he's fallen into counting in Ukrainian. He tries to switch back to English, and then tries to remember how to say the number right; and then he forgets what the number was.

Dima digs his fingers hard into the sheet. He's forgotten the count. Jeff's going to be disappointed. Again.

He's messed up, bad. He's messed up when he was supposed to be making up for doing something wrong thing in the first place. Dima tries harder to remember the number, and comes up blank.

He presses his face harder against the bed, and waits for Jeff to acknowledge that he's messed up.

"Seventy-seven," Kent prompts quietly.

Dima shivers, and squeezes Kent's leg briefly in gratitude. But he stays quiet. He forgot the number; he can't cheat his way out of this. It won't help him get better if he cheats.

Jeff rests his free hand on the small of his back. "Don't ignore him, Dima."

Dima shivers harder. Is this a test? Jeff doesn't do that to him, but so many things are different today.

"I'm not cheat," he manages.

Jeff rubs his hand along Dima's spine, hard enough to make him focus. "You didn't cheat," he says. "Kent did."

"Not understand," Dima says shakily. He's supposed to count. He messed up. Kent told him the number. Isn't that cheating?

"Kent gave you the count," Jeff agrees. "You didn't ask for it. You didn't cheat."

Jeff rubs his hand along Dima's spine once more. "I know you heard him," he tells Dima. "So now you have to say it, and keep going without a rest. Because Kent broke the rules."

"Fuck," Kent says. "Jeff--"

"You said you'd trust me, Parson," Jeff cuts off harshly. Dima shudders, even though Jeff's not disappointed in him. "You haven't. Apologize to Dima for making this even harder on him."

Kent's fingers flex around his wrists.

"...I'm sorry, Dima," Kent says, quiet. "Jeff, don't hurt him 'cause I--"

Dima can't see with his face against the mattress, and Jeff doesn't say anything; but Kent cuts off mid-sentence.

The mean silence stretches out. And then Kent squeezes Dima's wrists before rubbing his thumbs against the underside of them.

Jeff takes a slow breath, and then runs his hand over Dima's spine again.

"This is Kent's first time in here," Jeff says calmly. "He doesn't know the rules. I didn't explain them to him, not like I did you. _So_," he continues. "Kent broke the rules, because he didn't know them. So I'm not going to count it, this time. Do you understand, Dima?"

...That makes sense. Jeff and Dima talked a lot about what he was going to let Jeff do when they first started this. But Kent came in abruptly this time, without much talking, because Jeff and Dima wanted to know that he was safe. Kent doesn't know all the things that Jeff and Dima have been doing for so long that they don't even say them out loud any more.

"Yeah," Dima says hoarsely. "Okay."

"Good," Jeff tells him, patting his back.

"I've never made you go this high before," he adds, gentler. "It's not bad if you make a mistake, Dima. You can make mistakes when I know you're really trying. And you're trying to be better, yeah?"

Dima jerks his head in a nod.

Jeff pats the small of his back again. "Yeah," he agrees. "You are."

He pulls his hand away. "All right. Say the number, Dima."

"--I gotta move my leg," Kent says.

Jeff makes an unsurprised noise. But then he shifts on the mattress and wraps an arm underneath Dima's chest, lifting him slightly.

"All right," Jeff says. "Up, Dima. Kent's gotta move to get pressure off his ankle."

Dima digs his elbows into the mattress and lifts himself off Kent's leg.

Kent spends a while shifting around on the bed. And then he spends longer readjusting the pillow behind him, grumbling about his back. Jeff keeps his arm around Dima's chest and waits.

". . . Alright," Kent says eventually. He settles on the mattress and wraps his hands back around Dima's wrists. Dima tried to keep them in the same place, but Kent jostled the mattress a lot when he was moving. "...I'm good."

"Okay," Jeff says, pulling his arm out from beneath Dima's chest. Dima settles back on the bed. "Say it if you need to move again."

"I will," Kent replies.

Jeff resettles between Dima's legs, and touches his fingers back to the inside of his knee. Dima swallows hard, and tries not to hope that Jeff won't pinch the same spot twice. Even after that long break, pretty much all of him still hurts.

"Tell me the number, Dima," Jeff says.

"Seven-seven," Dima says. "--Seventy-seven."

"Good," Jeff tells him. "How many are left?"

He has to pause for a while, to figure out the math. If he adds three, that's eighty. That minus one hundred is twenty. Twenty plus three. "Twenty-three," Dima answers.

He can do it. He's made it this far; he can finish. Jeff never punishes him more than Dima can handle. He can do it.

"Good," Jeff repeats, before moving his fingers lower on his calf. Dima squeezes his eyes shut tighter and presses his forehead hard against the bed.

Jeff's worked over both his legs by the time Dima reaches ninety. He lifts his hand away after Dima counts; but instead of moving to a new spot, Jeff rests a palm on his back. "Dima."

"Yeah," Dima says hoarsely. Did he count wrong? He was trying to focus.

"The last ten are going to hurt a lot worse," Jeff warns him.

Dima clenches his jaw and presses his forehead hard to the mattress as he shudders. And then he swallows, and says, "Okay."

Jeff presses his fingers to the inside of Dima's thigh, high up near his crotch. Dima jerks.

And then he takes a deep breath and makes himself relax back down onto the bed. Jeff waits.

He manages to hold still enough that he doesn't kick when Jeff pinches him again, twisting his skin harder than before and pulling it up as well. But he can't help jerking again. It _hurts_.

It hurts bad enough that Dima disjointedly thinks about danger: groin injuries, needing to check with the Aces' trainer. If he felt like this in a practice or a workout, he would stop and go straight to Elliot to make sure he wasn't actually hurt.

He trusts Jeff. Dima knows he's careful; he knows Jeff does research for the punishments he gives him. Jeff would never do anything that would make Dima unable to play. He knows how much playing hockey, on the Aces, with him and Kent, means to Dima. He'd never do anything to take that away.

But it _hurts_.

Jeff's still resting his fingers on the same spot. He's waiting for Dima to count.

He's blanked on the number again.

He grits his teeth and presses his face harder against the mattress. Jeff told him to count to a hundred. He thinks Dima can do this. So he can.

...Jeff said there were ten more left. So they were at ninety. Add this one.

"Дев'яносто один," Dima guesses. No. English. "Ninety-one."

Jeff pulls his hand away and moves to a new spot, a little higher on his inner thigh. Dima exhales in relief as he realizes he got it right; and then he tightens his jaw and tries to hold still.

Jeff pinches him two more times on that thigh, and then another three times on the inside of his other thigh. Dima grips the sheet tight and struggles to hold still.

After he counts to ninety-six, Jeff tells him to turn over again. Dima's slow, breathing shallowly as he forces himself back over, but he does it. Jeff helps him. Kent lets go of his wrist so he can turn over, and then grips it again and pushes it down to the bed once Dima's settled on his back once more.

"Four more," Jeff tells him. "These'll hurt the most."

Dima chokes down an exhausted whine, and then tells himself that if he doesn't want to be punished, then he has to be better. "Okay."

Jeff presses his fingers to the thin skin of his taint. Dima gasps and jerks his legs closed before he can stop himself.

He bangs his legs into Jeff when he does it. Jeff waits, and keeps his fingers there.

He told Dima it was going to be hard. He's doing this so Dima will be better in the future.

Dima knows he's breathing way too fast and shallow. He tries to force himself to stop fighting: to relax back onto the mattress, to spread his legs open again to give Jeff room, to slow his breathing, to accept Jeff's decision.

He finally pushes his legs back down onto the mattress. Dima makes himself say, "Okay."

Jeff pinches him.

It's not as hard as the last ones were. Jeff doesn't pull on his skin, or twist it, and he doesn't even pinch as hard as he's been doing since the start. But it still hurts. It hurts so much. Dima slams his heel on the mattress and jerks his knees in and chokes down a curse.

Kent pushes more weight onto his wrists, holding him down to the bed. Dima can feel his hands shaking.

"Count, Dima," Jeff reminds him gently.

"...Ninety-five," Dima manages, forcing himself to slide his legs back down onto the bed.

"No," Jeff corrects. "Ninety-seven."

"Ninety-seven," Dima repeats.

Jeff pinches him again, closer to his balls. He grunts when Dima accidentally knees him in the side this time; but when Dima starts desperately trying to apologize, Jeff tells him to stop.

"I don't want you to be sorry, Dima," Jeff reminds him. "I want you to do better."

"Will," Dima manages, wishing he didn't feel tears in the corners of his eyes. He hasn't been able to bring himself to open them since he turned back over. "Will. Promise."

"I know you're trying," Jeff tells him encouragingly. "Count, Dima."

Dima tries, and then blanks again.

For a long time.

Jeff waits for him to figure it out; but eventually the silence becomes too much. Dima presses his face into his arm and forces himself to admit, "Forgot."

Jeff pulls his hand away, and grips Dima's chin lightly. He shudders, but lets Jeff tilt his face back up.

"You forgot the number you were supposed to count?" Jeff asks.

Dima starts to bite his lip, then remembers the rules and stops. He makes himself nod jerkily.

Jeff makes a tsking noise, and Dima shivers and squeezes his eyes shut tighter. He didn't want to disappoint Jeff again. He wanted to get this right. He wants to be better.

"Kent," Jeff says quietly. "You can tell Dima the number, if you're willing to have it count against you instead of him."

Dima jerks and opens his eyes. Jeff isn't looking at him; he's looking at Kent.

Dima shakes his head sharply. "I mess up, not Kent--"

"You can't decide for other people, Dima," Jeff says, looking down at him. "Kent makes his own choices."

Jeff looks back up, at Kent. "You gonna take the penalty for him, captain?"

"--Yeah," Kent says roughly; and before Dima can tell him no, Kent says, "Ninety-eight."

"_Kent_," Dima moans--and then everything else strangles in his throat as Jeff sets his fingers back against his taint. "Fuck!"

"Count, Dima," Jeff tells him.

"...Ninety-eight," Dima chokes out.

"Good," Jeff says, softer. "Two more."

"Okay," Dima manages.

Jeff presses his fingers to the skin of Dima's balls.

"_**Fuck**!_" he shouts involuntarily, jerking his knees in again. He's stopped by the solid weight of Jeff's torso. Again.

"_Fuck_," Dima sobs. He already hurts so much. Not this too. He hurts so much.

But if he doesn't want to be punished, then he has to be better. Jeff's only doing this because Dima earned it.

Dima forces his legs down onto the mattress, opening himself back up for Jeff. "Okay."

Jeff pinches his balls. It's even less pressure than he used on Dima's taint, but it **hurts**. Dima twists hard to the side, unable to help himself; Kent has to shift his weight to force Dima's wrist back down onto the mattress.

Jeff waits.

Dima rasps for breath, trying to get control over himself. All he has to do is count, and accept this. He can do it.

"Ninety-nine," Kent says evenly.

"**Fuck**!" Dima gasps. "Kent, no. I can do. No more, no--hurt yourself. I can do it."

"Count, Dima," Jeff says.

"Ninety-nine," Dima says. "Jeff, no. No let him--any more--"

"Kent makes his own choices, Dima," Jeff tells him, shifting his fingers to the other side of his balls. "You can't make them for him."

Dima shudders hard and presses his face against his arm. He doesn't want Kent to choose to be hurt for him. He wants to do this right. He wants to be better.

Jeff pinches him again.

Dima kicks his heels against the bed. Jeff isn't being mean, he's being gentler now than before, but it _hurts_. 

He struggles to get his breath. He has to remember the number he's supposed to count, before Kent tells it to him again.

Jeff says coolly, "He told you 'no,' Kent. You keep deciding for him after that, that's a dick move."

Kent swears; but then he doesn't say anything else. He doesn't tell Dima the number. Jeff keeps his fingers pressed lightly to Dima's balls and waits.

"Сто," Dima manages at last. No. _English_. "Hundred." Is it 'one' or 'a'? Does he need to say that too? Yes, he wants to do this right. "One hundred."

"That's right," Jeff says; and Dima exhales heavily and slumps into the mattress. "You're done, Dima."

Dima curls onto his side toward him.

Kent starts to press his wrist back to the bed, but Jeff says, "No, it's okay. Let him move again."

"--Alright," Kent says.

Jeff shifts around on the bed, slinging his legs over the side. He slides an arm behind Dima's back and pulls him closer.

Dima wraps his arms around Jeff's waist and curls up against him, shaking.

Jeff runs his hands soothingly over Dima's hair and the back of his neck, avoiding the rest of him. All the pinches he endured still hurt too much; he doesn't want to be touched anywhere else yet.

"You did a good job, Dima," Jeff tells him gently. "You showed you want to be better."

Dima swallows and keeps his face pressed against Jeff's thigh.

Jeff eventually wipes away the tears that Dima couldn't force down, but he doesn't say anything about them. Dima tried hard not to resist, he tried to hold still and accept Jeff's decision, but it hurt.

But Jeff doesn't get disappointed in him. "Good job, Dima," he says instead. "Here, turn on your back for me."

Dima does. Jeff brushes a hand over his hair again; and then he feels Jeff's hands on his wrists next to Kent's.

"He did it," Jeff says quietly. "So it's time to take the cuffs off. Go ahead and let go."

"--Okay," Kent mumbles. He lets go of Dima's wrists.

Jeff rubs his thumbs along the inside of Dima's wrists for a few moments, even though they aren't sore like they'd usually be if they'd been clipped to his collar or the bed restraints while he struggled to accept his punishment. Kent let him move around a lot more than the real cuffs do.

Jeff unties the pillowcase and pulls it away from his throat. "Hey, Dima."

"Hey, Jeff," he says hoarsely. His throat and wrists feel cold. His body hurts.

"Good job," Jeff repeats fondly. "Breathe a little slower for me now, okay?"

"Okay," Dima says. He curls back up against Jeff and focuses on doing that.

Jeff rests a hand loosely around the back of his neck, and strokes his hair more while Dima breathes. After a few moments, he feels another light touch on his back: fingertips, avoiding all the places he was pinched. Kent? Yeah.

"You said you'd trust me," Jeff says, and Dima blinks. Jeff doesn't sound disappointed this time, just unsurprised. When Dima shifts his head and opens his eyes to look at him, Jeff's looking over his shoulder at Kent.

"Yeah, but man..." Kent says, before trailing off. When Dima twists around to see him, Kent's lip is bleeding, like he bit through it.

"Yeah, I know," Jeff tells Kent. He reaches over and rubs away the blood under Kent's lip. "It's rough."

"Oh," Dima says. He forgot. He tells Jeff, "Thank you."

He says it to Kent, too, because Kent helped. And then he looks back at Jeff. "I'm sorry. Forgot."

Jeff brushes a hand slowly over his hair again. "You didn't forget," he says. "You were just pulling yourself back together. But you're welcome."

Dima takes a deep breath, and then exhales slowly, and rests his face against Jeff's thigh.

He'll text Fearn again, later. He'll write it to Fearn's wife, just in case the other man's still on a no screens restriction and Rachel is still answering his phone for him. Dima will apologize again, owning what he did this time. He'll ask if Fearn is willing to get lunch with him the next time that they play together after Fearn is better, so they can talk.

If Fearn says no, that's okay. Dima messed up bad, really hurting him, and Fearn isn't obligated to forgive him for it.

Whatever Fearn says, Dima has to stop screwing up his thoughts over what he did yesterday. He has to focus on the Aces' future games. He has to look out for his teammates.

Eventually, Jeff rests a hand on his head. "You feel like getting up?"

It feels nice, lying beside Jeff on the bed afterward. It feels nicer with Kent touching him too, even if Kent's being way more hesitant than Dima's used to.

But he's pretty hungry. "Yeah," he says.

Jeff helps him sit up, and then urges Dima to shift around until he's slung his feet over the edge of the bed. Dima stands.

Jeff brings him around the side of the bed, stopping him in front of the cabinet. "I'm gonna get the washcloths."

"Okay," Dima agrees.

He looks at himself in the mirror above the cabinet, because he knows that's why Jeff brought him here. Jeff likes for Dima to see what he's done to him, as another reminder before the pain and the marks fade. Behind him, he can see Kent still sitting on the bed, watching him.

There's more marks this time than he's used to. Dima doesn't bruise easily, but he can see spots on his arms and thighs and a place on his stomach that he's sure are going to. All of him aches dully, a sensation that's spread out across his skin. It doesn't feel like it's going to end soon.

That's okay. The way he feels now will help him remember to be better in the future.

Jeff brings over the dry washcloth and the bowl. There's a second damp washcloth inside it.

Dima turns away from the mirror to face Jeff so he can clean him up. He closes his eyes as Jeff starts to wipe off his face, and then keeps them shut as Jeff takes care of the rest of him.

When he opens them again, Kent's no longer on the bed. He's gone over to the closet to put his shoes back on.

"All right," Jeff says, swiping the not-dry-anymore washcloth over his chest one last time. "You want a shower, Scraps? Or do you wanna eat?"

He's really hungry. "Let's eat," Scrappy says.

"Sounds good," Swoops agrees, dropping washcloth into the bowl.

Scrappy eases back into his boxers, and then tries to put on his jeans before deciding to wait a while on those. He pulls on his t-shirt as he follows Jeff out of the bedroom.

Swoops heads to the bathroom, still carrying the bowl, so Scrappy goes into the kitchen to get the food out.

Parse trails after them, pausing at the thermostat and generally staying too far away. Scrappy finally turns around and reaches for his hand, pulling him closer. He doesn't want Parse to be so far away.

Parse steps around one of the chairs and comes up next to him. "...You okay?"

He nods. "Yeah. I feel better."

Parse makes an unconvinced face. "Scraps, that had to fuckin' hurt."

"Yeah," Scrappy agrees. "But now I feel better."

Parse still looks unsure. He reaches out and brushes a thumb over a spot on Scrappy's forearm, near his elbow. Scrappy can feel how his skin's still raised and a little hard under Parse's touch; that spot's definitely going to bruise.

"'Better' like...how?" Parse asks. "I thought you didn't like bein' hurt."

"I don't. But...." Scrappy tries to figure out how to explain it.

". . . Sometimes when I really screw up," he says, "like hurting Fearn yesterday. I keep thinking about it, and thinking about it. Even when I know I gotta think about practice. Or the team meeting, or working out. I can't get it outta my head, how I messed up.

"But after Jeff punishes me, then I know...I've made up for it. Kinda?" Scrappy rubs the back of his head. "I still gotta talk to Fearn. But Jeff said this is what I had to do to correct my behavior. And I did it. So now I should focus on the future and do better, not think about the past. You know?"

It's hard to explain. Scrappy shrugs. "It makes me feel better," he says.

"Huh," Parse mumbles.

"...Alright. I get it," he nods. "The over-thinking. Jeff helpin' you clear your head."

Parse runs a finger over the developing bruise on Scrappy's arm once more, and then drops his hand. "...Glad it helps."

"Me too," Scrappy says. He can't imagine what the past years would be like if Swoops hadn't started helping him like this. He'd probably have hurt more guys on the ice. That would be horrible.

Swoops is paused in the hallway by the kitchen, frowning at his phone. He waits a moment after Parse and Scrappy finish talking, and then says, "Parse, they ever take this long to get back to you?"

"Nah," Parse says, in that one casual tone that means he's downplaying something. "But the curse team never had to chase down a clone of me before. It's only been a couple hours, man. You're fine."

Swoops just grunts, because he knows what that tone Parse is using means, too.

"Your fault for buildin' your house so big," Parse says with a shrug. "It's gonna take them a while to cleanse it."

Swoops pokes at his phone for another moment. But then he huffs out a breath through his teeth and pushes it into his pocket, before heading over to check the thermostat. "All right."

"It'll be fine," Parse says, opening the fridge.

*

When Parse ordered room service, he got that thing that's a fancy French word for "meat platter" that Scrappy can never pronounce well. It was the only thing on the menu that said it's for two, which is even less subtle than Swoops getting the lamb dish that has both a leg of lamb and a lamb chop, and then cutting the chop in half and pushing one half right to the edge of his plate. On the side where Scrappy's sitting next to him.

Scrappy's not complaining, though. The salad he got really wasn't enough for lunch, not after his workout and his punishment and getting his appetite back.

He ignores the lamb chop because Swoops needs it more. He did a lot of work for Scrappy's punishment, too. But Scrappy helps himself to some of the meat and onion jam from Parse's platter, and to all of the pickled vegetables that Parse won't touch, because Parse has bad taste. Swoops keeps his calf resting against Scrappy's own while they eat, which is nice.

They talk about the upcoming game against the Jets, because it's better than talking about Swoops's curse. There's nothing more they can do about that. The curse team's handling it.

Scrappy's not looking forward to tomorrow's game. During the summer Winnipeg signed a guy he hates, bringing Gudas over from the eastern conference and forcing the Aces to play against him more often.

There's only a few guys in the league who actively try to hurt other players, instead of just having to make tough decisions on the ice; but Gudas is one of them. Scrappy's going to have to be on high alert whenever that guy touches the ice while Parse and Swoops and all the rest of his teammates are out there.

The last time they played Winnipeg, Gudas tried to illegally hit Parse into the boards while his back was turned. Parse sensed him coming and managed to spin out of the way and skate the puck out while Gudas banged into the boards, but that was just luck and Parse's gifted speed. Gudas didn't manage to skate off before Scrappy reached him.

The refs gave Scrappy a two minute penalty for roughing, because they had to: he hit Gudas and then shoved his head into the glass afterward, pissing off all the Jets fans sitting behind it.

Scrappy skated to the penalty box to serve the time without arguing. He knew the refs were going light on him. He could've been given ten minutes for unsportsmanlike conduct, or even been ejected from the game; but the refs knew what kind of player Gudas was. What Scrappy did was illegal, but what Gudas tried to do was illegal too.

Scrappy knew he was getting off lightly. The league could have suspended him for multiple games for what he did, but he didn't even get called into a disciplinary hearing. The player safety department knows what kind of guy Gudas is, too. 

Swoops didn't punish him for that game, because Scrappy didn't feel guilty about what he did. But he made Scrappy talk through his actions with him, and they talked about how Scrappy needs to have better impulse control in every game, no matter who they're playing against.

He can't just pick and choose when to play the right way. That makes him too much like the guys who go out to deliberately hurt other players, and Scrappy doesn't want to be a person like that.

So even though he hates Gudas, he'll do the right thing in tomorrow's game. Even if--when--Scrappy has to teach the guy a lesson tomorrow night, he'll do it right. He won't let himself get angry for real.

The lingering dull ache he feels everywhere right now will be gone by then, but the bruises Swoops gave him will be a reminder. Scrappy'll see them while dressing for the game, and probably feel them a little under his pads as he plays. They'll help him remember to do his job the right way.

Swoops and Parse discuss power play strategies for a little while as Scrappy just listens and eats, since he's not on the PP team.

Then Swoops pauses, and starts laughing to himself.

Scrappy looks over. Parse raises an eyebrow.

"--I was thinking," Swoops answers. He looks at Scrappy. "Remember how I said, whenever some asshole hurts you and the refs ignore it, Parse and I gotta decide whether to keep playing or go after them?"

Scrappy nods.

"Even as I said it," Swoops continues, grinning a little wider, "I was thinking to myself, 'If I were _really_ bein' accurate, it'd be "**I** gotta decide whether to keep playing," because we all fuckin' know Parse is already tryin' to verbally eviscerate the guy and five seconds away from getting his ass kicked.'"

Swoops shakes his head. "So no matter what I decide, in another minute I'm probably gonna be sent out on the penalty kill anyway. You know how many times I've gone over the bench thinking 'It's a real goddamn irony _I'm_ the nonviolent one on this line'?"

Scrappy snickers. Parse snorts doubtfully and says, "I don't pick that many fights."

Swoops and Scrappy look at him.

"Remind me," Swoops says. "When they made the Quebec City draft official and it was clear the Pens were gonna sacrifice Fleury to save Murray, _**who**_ was the guy who chirped Crosby about that all fuckin' game until _literally_ the entire Pens team wanted to kill you?"

Parse just shrugs.

"Murray took a whack at you," Scrappy reminds Parse, because that was the game where he had to hold back one of the Penguins' goalies to keep Murray from slashing Parse in the legs a second time, which was kind of surreal.

It was the first--and hopefully only--time that Scrappy's had to almost fight a goalie. According to one of Scrappy's friends, that clip from the 2016-17 LVA@PIT game is still one of the first things that comes up if somebody googles his name.

"Psychological warfare doesn't count," Parse replies, taking a drink of water.

"_**Parse**_," Swoops says in resigned exasperation. Scrappy ends up laughing hard enough that he has to brace his forearms on the table.

*

The curse team still hasn't called by the time they're finished eating. Swoops double-checks his text messages and call history, while Scrappy wipes off his mouth with his thumb and tries to decide if he wants to put his pants on now. His thighs and groin ache a little less than before: Swoops got him a pillow before they sat down to eat, so Scrappy didn't have to sit directly on the wooden kitchen chairs.

Parse fidgets with the discarded vegetable stems that Scrappy tossed back onto the meat platter, and then gets up and starts clearing the table.

Scrappy pushes his chair back to help, but Parse shakes his head.

"I got it," he says, starting to clap a hand on Scrappy's shoulder. But then he hesitates, and just touches Scrappy's shoulder with his fingertips instead.

"Okay," Scrappy agrees. It's a little selfish not to help, but if Parse doesn't mind, Scrappy's not going to argue today.

He's unenthusiastically decided that he should at least try to put his jeans on again, when Swoops drops his phone onto the table with a long exhale.

Then he tips his head back toward where Parse is rinsing the dishes at the sink. "I gave you the opening if you wanna use it," Swoops says. "I know you caught it, Parse."

Parse makes a noise in the back of his throat.

"Ask for the things you want, Kent," Swoops reminds him, sitting back up.

Parse exhales hard through his teeth, and keeps rinsing the dishes.

Scrappy waits. So does Swoops, although he unlocks his phone again and turns the volume up all the way. Parse has gotten a lot better at talking to them about how he feels, and asking Swoops or Scrappy for things that he likes over the last few years. But sometimes he still gets stubborn or needs a reminder. But usually if they're patient, Parse will push through his hesitation on his own.

Parse puts all the dishes in the dishwasher, and then shuts it and turns around to face them. He starts to say something; but then he stops and leans against the counter instead, sliding his hands into his pockets and hooking out his thumbs.

". . . Do you. . . ." Parse shifts on his feet. "You guys ever have sex? Like...afterward?"

"Naw," Scrappy says, shaking his head. It would be weird to get off after finishing a punishment. It'd feel like he was being given a reward for getting through it, when what he's supposed to do is accept what Swoops gave him because that's what Scrappy earned by not behaving like the kind of person he wants to be.

The first time Swoops punished him, Scrappy asked afterward if Swoops wanted him to give him a blowjob, or a hand job, or to do something else for him to thank him. But Swoops said no.

He told Scrappy that this wasn't about sex, because he knew that Scrappy didn't like being hurt during sex. It was only about correcting his behavior. Swoops told him that the fact that Scrappy trusted him enough to do this with him was all that he wanted.

"It's not like that," Swoops explains, twisting around in his chair to look at Parse. "We can talk about it more later, if Scraps is okay with that too," he adds. "But first. Ask for what you want, Kent."

Parse pushes his hands a little deeper into his pockets and blows out another breath.

But then he looks over at Scrappy. "Can I suck you off?"

Scrappy blinks, and reflexively looks at Swoops.

"It's not a reward for you," Swoops reassures him. "If anything, you're rewarding Parse."

...That kind of makes sense? Scrappy knows that Parse likes giving blowjobs. But he's still not sure how getting one wouldn't be like a reward. Unless he's not supposed to come?

But when he asks if that's what Swoops means, he shakes his head. "No, it's like.... All right. Parse, stop me if I'm getting anything wrong," Swoops tells him, before looking back at Scrappy.

"When I take care of you after you've been punished, that's not a reward," Swoops says. "That's just basic aftercare. I'd be an asshole if I didn't--no. I'd feel like a bad boyfriend--dammit."

Swoops drags a hand over his hair. "Okay," he tries again. "I'd personally feel like an asshole if I didn't take care of you afterward, because if somebody else treated you like that, I'd be pissed at them. But that doesn't mean I expect you to tell Parse 'yes,' okay, Scraps?" Swoops tells him. "I am tying myself in verbal knots trying to avoid saying I expect that."

Parse snorts. Swoops makes a face and tells him "Yeah, yeah," before looking back at Scrappy. "I'm not going to think you're being mean if you want to say no, Dima. Okay?"

Scrappy's gotten kind of lost on where this is going. "Uh."

"I don't like seeing you get hurt," Parse says, steadily but quiet. He pushes his hands further into his pockets, sliding his thumbs in too; but he keeps meeting Scrappy's eyes. He's gotten a lot better at asking for things he wants. "I just...wanna do something to make you feel better."

Then Parse shrugs and leans heavier against the counter. "But yeah, no, I know this is you and Swoops's thing. I don't wanna make it weird. And who knows when the curse team's gonna call, anyway."

Parse is not as subtle about walking back uncomfortable topics as he thinks is. But Scrappy decides he can point that out another time.

He looks at Parse's lip again. Parse wiped the blood off it and his chin before they ate, but it's still obvious that he bit it open pretty deep. He was eating carefully all through lunch.

Parse did that to himself, because he really didn't like seeing Scrappy get hurt. But despite that, he was trying to do what Swoops had asked: to trust him, and stay quiet. Because Parse wanted to stay instead of leaving. He didn't want Swoops or Scrappy to be out of his sight until the curse was broken. He didn't want to leave them anymore than Scrappy and Swoops wanted Parse to be left on his own.

...Swoops was being kind of confusing, but Scrappy got that he was talking about aftercare. So maybe Parse giving Scrappy a blowjob isn't a reward, because it's not about him--it's about Parse. Like, it's doing something to help Parse mentally leave the bedroom? The way that Swoops always cleans Scrappy up afterward before they go downstairs to eat. That always helps Scrappy feel more settled again; and Swoops said that it makes him feel better, too.

That makes sense. He's glad that Parse stayed with them, and he's really glad that Parse doesn't seem upset by any of the things Scrappy said while he was talking with Swoops. Even though Scrappy hasn't been able to bring himself to actually ask Parse about that yet. Not just yet.

But if Parse's staying in the room with them means that he felt bad while seeing Scrappy get hurt, then Scrappy definitely wants to do something to take care of Parse now. "Okay."

Parse shrugs again. "Nah, it's alright--"

"Naw," Scrappy says firmly. "I want to. It'll make you feel better, right?"

Parse hesitates, and then nods. "Yeah."

"Okay," Scrappy agrees. "You wanna wait until your lip heals?"

Parse shakes his head. "It's okay."

It probably is. Parse feels a lot differently about being hurt during sex than Scrappy does. "Okay."

Scrappy starts to push away from the table again, but then he pauses and looks over at Swoops. "Uh. Do you want to--" Wait. He looks back to Parse. "Is it okay if--?" Wait. Who's he supposed to ask first?

Swoops gives him a hand. "I'll never turn down a chance to watch Parse suck cock," he smiles. "If you're cool with it, Parser."

"Sure thing," Parse drawls; and then he waits a beat until Swoops's stood up, and adds, "Voyeur."

"Yep!" Swoops grins, with unashamed cheerfulness. Scrappy snickers. Parse shakes his head and pretends he isn't holding down a smile.

*

Having sex in the same bedroom where Swoops punished him, so soon afterward, is a little too weird for Scrappy. If he stays overnight at Swoops' house after he's been punished, he sleeps in the downstairs bedroom.

It's technically a guest room, but really it's his and Parse's and Swoops' bedroom. Swoops put a king-sized bed in there and built a big private bathroom in it, and he got the architect who designed his place to give it an oversized door, so it's easy to move furniture and stuff in and out to set up a full-blown scene with Parse.

Parse casually called it "Jeff's parents' bedroom" when Swoops threw his housewarming party, and told the guys to stay out. Swoops nearly choked on his beer.

Parse still calls it that any time Swoops throws an Aces party at his house. Now pretty much all the guys call it Swoops' parents' room, and by this point Swoops has to go along with it. Scrappy tried to act sympathetic for the first month, but it was pretty funny.

If Scrappy stays overnight, Swoops sleeps down there with him, unless he's got a PR event or something the next morning that'll force him to get up way earlier than Scrappy. If that's the case, Swoops will stay with him until Scrappy falls asleep before leaving as quietly as possible. Scrappy's a light sleeper, so sometimes he wakes up anyway; but if he does, he just curls back up under the blanket and tries to go back to sleep.

Even the times he doesn't stay overnight, they still have a rhythm. Once Scrappy's done with his punishment, he and Swoops eat a meal and then sprawl out next to each other on Swoops' big couch in the living room and watch food shows for a while.

Working in the U.S. for over a decade still hasn't worn down Scrappy's enjoyment of the excessive American spectacle of stuff like Man vs. Food reruns, or anything Guy Fieri's in. And it's way easier to enjoy those than it is to try and follow all the multi-season plot-filled shows that Swoops also watches.

But usually when Scrappy's done with his punishments, it's evening. And they've always only done that at Swoops' house, not in a hotel. Swoops will talk with Scrappy in hotels, but he only punishes him inside his own bedroom.

Well, before today. Things are a little mixed up today.

It's okay. But having sex in the same bedroom as before is still too weird for Scrappy. So they pile onto the bed in the glassed-off alcove instead, even though it's smaller. They figure it out.

Swoops props himself up against the headboard with some pillows, and tells Scrappy to come over. Scrappy settles on the mattress between Swoops' legs and leans against his chest. It puts pressure on a lot of bruising spots on his butt and back; but then Swoops folds his arms gently around Scrappy's waist, and that feels nice.

Parse watches both of them as he finishes stripping down too, and tosses his clothes on top of theirs on the bench sitting by the wall. Then he pulls the comforter Swoops kicked down the bed onto the floor, and crawls onto the mattress between Scrappy and Swoops' legs.

Scrappy has the out of nowhere thought that he hopes they don't end up having to sleep here. They're thrown half the pillows and all the blankets on the hotel room floor, and those are gross no matter how clean they look.

Then he tells himself to focus. He's supposed to be helping Parse feel better. So when Parse curls a hand around Scrappy's dick, he shifts around to try and get off one of the really bad bruises and then slides a hand into Parse's hair. Parse just cut it the other day, so it's hard to get a real grip.

But Parse makes a pleased noise, so Scrappy guesses it's fine. He scratches his nails absently along Parse's scalp as Parse leans down to suck him off.  
  
  
After a while, though, Scrappy starts to feel bad about how hard he's making Parse work for nothing.

Parse is working really hard, doing all the stuff that Scrappy likes, but he still aches a lot. It takes him an embarrassingly long time to even get hard, and even now that he has, he still doesn't feel like he's going to come any time soon. Or later. Parse is trying really hard to make him feel good; but Scrappy hurts a little too much for it to take.

Eventually, Parse pulls off and pops his jaw. Scrappy shifts on the mattress again before leaning forward. "Hey, Parser. It's okay. You don't gotta do any more."

Parse shakes his head as he rubs his jaw. "I wanna."

Scrappy pushes his hair back from his forehead, and admits, "I don't think I'm gonna come. Sorry. It just...it still kinda hurts a lot."

Parse wipes a wrist over his mouth, and then exhales slowly. He nods. "Alright."

"You still wanna make Parse feel better?" Swoops asks him.

Scrappy nods. He thought he could do this; but he's pretty sure he can't. So if there's something else he can do for Parse instead, he will. "Yeah."

"All right," Swoops says. Then he asks quieter, "Will you trust me?"

Scrappy blinks. Swoops almost never asks him that anymore--he knows Scrappy's answer is 'yes.' "Yeah."

"Okay." Swoops tightens his arms around his waist in a brief, careful hug. "You gonna hand him over to me?"

Parse holds down a shiver at that; but Scrappy's known him for years. He doesn't need to see it. He knows what Swoops can do to Parse, just by talking.

"Yeah," Scrappy nods. He's fine with Swoops taking over. Parse may make Swoops work harder than Scrappy to put him down, but Swoops is way better at it. "Go ahead."

"Nice," Swoops says, pulling the corner of his mouth back in a half-smirk. Parse tightens his fingers in the sheet.

But instead of saying anything to Parse, Swoops pats Scrappy's stomach lightly. "Think you can stay hard?"

Scrappy thinks about it. Maybe? He doesn't hurt enough that his dick's going to go soft no matter what. He just doesn't feel good enough to want to come. It's a weird feeling. "I think so."

That sounds kind of mean to Parse, though. But Scrappy's also known Swoops for long enough that he has a pretty good idea of how to pass to him. So he tells Swoops, "He's doing a good job."

"He could be doin' better," Swoops replies; and the next time he speaks, he's got that voice he only uses with Parse. "We all know how much you love suckin' Scraps' cock, Kent. Quit hanging back there like you aren't desperate to get it down your throat again."

Parse narrows his eyes. But before he can retort, Swoops reaches out and grabs a fistful of his hair.

Parse stumbles onto his hands and knees with a hissed swear. When Swoops hauls him forward, he has to crawl quickly between Scrappy's legs.

"Put some fuckin' effort into it this time, Parson," Swoops orders, pushing Parse's head down. Parse sneers; but he doesn't mouth off. A second later, he starts sucking Scrappy's dick again.

Swoops tells Scrappy to settle in, so he does. He shifts around, getting more comfortable against Swoops' chest, and rests his head against Swoops's shoulder.

Swoops drapes his free arm back around Scrappy's waist, and Scrappy folds his arms over it. He'll wait to touch Parse again until Swoops has had more time to work on him. He doesn't want to interrupt.

"That's better," Swoops says eventually, after Parse starts deep-throating Scrappy. He keeps his grip tight in Parse's hair. "You tryin' to cheat Dima earlier, Parson? Trying to coast by on past rep without doing any real work?"

Parse shivers harder and grips the sheet tight as Swoops scratches his nails over his scalp. He hasn't looked back up since Swoops got his hands on him. He started to jerk off once, while he was still sucking Scrappy's dick; but then Swoops knocked his foot against Parse's arm and told him that if he wanted to get off, he had to make Scrappy feel better first. Parse planted his hands on the mattress after that.

"Think that's the right way for a captain to act?" Swoops adds, still low and mean, and this time Parse flinches.

"Don't be mean," Scrappy mumbles, bumping his head against Swoops's shoulder.

Swoops snorts. But he loosens his grip on Parse's hair.

"No wonder you always wanna get fucked by both of us," Swoops tells Parse. "You know Scraps always makes me go too easy on you."

Parse just makes a noise in the back of his throat. Swoops pats his head obnoxiously, and then slides his fingers back into Parse's hair. "Better prove you deserve it.

"And remember who's cock you've got down your throat," Swoops adds. "You're gonna keep staying quiet for Dima."

Parse gives a short nod. Swoops tells him "Good" and digs his fingers a little tighter into his hair, until Parse makes a soft grunt.

Swoops lets that go. They all know Scrappy doesn't mind little sounds like that; it's the noise of somebody gagging while giving a blowjob that makes him feel kind of queasy. He doesn't watch much porn with blowjobs in it, unless they're not mean like that.

Swoops is the opposite. He likes hearing Parse choke a little while he's fucking his mouth, and Scrappy knows that Parse plays it up for Swoops. Or at least he does until he's finally gone down for Swoops. Parse gets quieter then; and Swoops gets more affectionate too, shifting to only a little mean and mostly praising.

Scrappy likes that part. He likes seeing Parse finally relax like that, and hearing Swoops reward him for it. It took Parse a while to be okay with trusting Swoops enough that Swoops could do the stuff that Parse really likes. It took Parse even longer to be okay with Scrappy seeing him like that.

Scrappy and Parse never talked about it much, because Swoops is a lot better at helping Parse work through his mental stuff about sex than Scrappy is. But some of the things Swoops has told him when he and Scrappy are planning out their side of scenes have made Scrappy pretty sure that it took Parse a lot longer than Swoops to get comfortable with the things he likes during sex. Guys don't go around calling each other 'rapist' in the dressing room or on the ice, but they toss out stuff like 'fag' and 'pussy' and 'cocksucker' a lot.

The noise of Parse choking while Swoops fucks his throat hard is still one of Scrappy's least favorite sounds, but it's different when it's Swoops and Parse, and not strangers on the internet. Scrappy knows that Parse likes Swoops doing that with him. That helps a lot.

And Scrappy knows that even if Swoops and Parse like having rougher sex with each other than they do with Scrappy, in the end, Parse is safe with Swoops.

In the end, Swoops is always careful. He'd never do anything that would make Parse unable to play. Swoops knows how much playing hockey, on the Aces, with himself and Scrappy, means to Parse. He'd never do anything to take that away.

Scrappy is grateful that Swoops is his friend and partner; but he's glad that he's Parse's friend and partner, too. Swoops can push Parse a lot harder than Scrappy can bring himself to. Swoops is the one who can push Parse hard enough that he can get Parse to accept things that he really wants.

It took Scrappy a while to get past the feeling that he was cheating on Swoops when he was with Parse, or cheating on Parse when he was with Swoops. But now he can't imagine not being with both of them. They're both such a big part of who he is--his feelings, his habits and rituals, the free time he carves out of his schedule--even if it's in different ways.

Scrappy can't imagine not having both of them in his life anymore. Even if his inevitable future after hockey is still something he really doesn't like to think about, it's impossible to imagine it without them there somehow. Scrappy tries to be as good to them as they are to him.

He reaches down and rubs his thumb along Parse's cheekbone. It feels a little sharper now with the way Parse's cheeks are hollowed in as he sucks. Parse blinks his eyes open and glances up at Scrappy for a moment, before going back to concentrating on the blowjob he's giving him.

Parse is so good to him. He's doing everything the way Scrappy likes best. And he's really trying not to make any choking noises, even with the heavy pressure of Swoops' hand on his head, forcing Parse down that extra bit more.

Swoops could be pushing a lot harder, but he's holding back. He knows that Scrappy doesn't want to hear Parse choke--but more importantly, Swoops told Parse to stay quiet, and if he pushes much harder, Parse'll hit the point where he can't physically obey no matter how much he tries.

Scrappy knows that's the real reason Swoops is holding back. Swoops never sets either of them up to fail.

Parse is breathing harder through his nose now; and his shoulders are starting to tremble. Scrappy puts his hand over Swoops's on top of Parse's head. "Give him a break."

"He can go a little longer," Swoops replies. Scrappy's still leaning back against him, so he can feel how hard Swoops's dick is by now.

Maybe Parse _can_ keep deep-throating him for longer. Swoops would know better than him. But that doesn't change anything--Parse still needs to breathe.

"My dick's bigger than yours," Scrappy reminds him, because that's probably making it harder on Parse. Swoops cracks up.

"Right through the fuckin' heart, Scraps!" he cackles, drawing his hand back and patting Scrappy on the shoulder, avoiding the worst bruise there. Parse pulls off of his dick and sits back on his heels, breathing hard.

Scrappy shrugs. He's a big guy; he's got a big dick. It is what it is.

He's never felt like it mattered much. The things Scrappy's proud of are the things he's worked to get: his hockey skills, his good English, his relationship with Swoops and Parse. He's the best fighter on the Aces because he trains at it, even if he doesn't have to spend as much time doing that as a decade ago, when the league was more brutal. He's as strong as he is because he busts his butt in the gym every day. He's fast enough on the ice that he can play on Swoops' and Parse's line without dragging them down because he does speed drills relentlessly. His dick he just got born with.

Swoops shakes his head and chuckles more before looking back at Parse.

Parse hasn't chirped either of them yet, which is pretty telling. He's still sitting on his heels with his eyes shut and his head dropped, but he's not breathing as rough as before.

Scrappy reaches out and touches his thumb to Parse's bottom lip, being careful not to press against the cut in it. "Hey. You can stop, Parser. It's okay."

Parse shakes his head once sharply without looking up. "I'm good," he says hoarsely, wiping off his chin.

Swoops stops him when Parse starts to lean back down, gripping Parse's shoulder hard to hold him still and pressing his thumb just below the hollow of Parse's throat. Parse finally glances up.

"You never know how to quit," Swoops says fondly, shaking his head. "You still wanna make Scraps feel better, Kent?"

"Yeah," Parse rasps. Then he swallows hard a couple times, and nods.

"This part's why I asked you to trust me," Swoops tells Scrappy quietly.

He says it so soft that Scrappy has to take a moment to realize what he said. Swoops waits.

Once he understands, Scrappy says, "Okay."

Swoops nods once and looks back at Parse.

"I get it, Kent," Swoops says, low and easygoing. That's his trap voice: Parse shudders before tensing up to hide it. "You hear somebody as good as Dima say he deliberately hurts guys because he wants to protect us," and Scrappy startles hard.

Swoops tightens his arm around Scrappy's waist, and runs his hand gently along Scrappy's side.

...Scrappy told Swoops he trusted him. And he does. If Swoops is bringing this up now, he must think it's going to help Parse somehow.

Scrappy didn't really want to talk about it just yet. ...But he knows that ignoring something or putting it off for too long usually makes things worse.

So he takes a slow breath, and then lets it all out and nods.

Swoops pats his side lightly, and goes back to talking to Parse. "You hear him say he's been doin' it for years--even though it makes him feel guilty enough that he willingly submits to punishment for it--because he wants to protect us," Swoops murmurs. "And you think, '_Fuck_. Somebody loves me this much? Somebody this good loves **me** this much?'"

Parse tightens his jaw. Swoops rubs his thumb along Parse's throat, and says, "You think, 'I can't fuck this up.'"

Swoops pauses, and then adds, "Because maybe he just doesn't know the real you yet, eh? Maybe if you let him really know you, once he does, he'll wise up and leave."

Scrappy flinches, because that cuts really close to why it was so hard at first to have Parse in the bedroom with him and Swoops.

He startles again when Parse spits out, "Fuck you, Troy."

"Maybe," Swoops says casually. "I get it, Kent. I used to think the same thing a lot. About both of you. Still do sometimes."

Parse's fists are clenched tight enough in the sheet that he's pulled it up from the edges of the bed. But after a few silent moments, he lets go.

Parse takes a slow breath, and looks over to the side. He's not as tense as before.

Swoops waits for a few moments, and then asks, "You still wanna make Scraps feel better?"

Parse blows out a breath through his teeth. But he nods.

"Yeah, sometimes you try to be good," Swoops says with a half-smile. "All right."

He shifts around to look at Scrappy's face. "You should tell Kent what you told me. About why you were worried about him joining us."

Scrappy freezes up.

Swoops looks at him for a long time. Scrappy chews on his lip and can't make himself meet his eyes.

Eventually Swoops says, softer, "I can do it instead. If you're okay with that, Dima?"

That's being a coward. Scrappy should do it himself. But--

The thought of talking about these ugly parts of himself with Parse--of telling Parse even more than what he's already heard Scrappy say....

Parse heard Scrappy talk about it with Swoops already, and he hasn't acted like he thinks less of Scrappy for it. But that's still different. It's not the same as directly telling Parse--his friend and captain, the guy who relies on Scrappy to have his back, the guy who, like Swoops, for some reason thinks Scrappy's a good person--that sometimes on the ice he hurts other people because he genuinely wants to. That's not the same at all.

"You do it," Scrappy mumbles, before he can make himself try harder.

Swoops pats his side again. "All right."

Scrappy pulls his legs in against his chest. Swoops drapes his other hand over Scrappy's waist, and hugs him briefly before looking back at Parse.

"Scrappy was afraid you'd hate him if you found out that sometimes when he's angry he intentionally hurts guys," Swoops says; and Scrappy flinches even though he knew it was coming.

"--What the _fuck?_" Parse says, jerking up straighter. Scrappy hunches his shoulders in. "Scraps, what the fuck--why would I do that?!"

"Yelling's kind of a mixed message, Parse," Swoops says mildly.

Parse closes his eyes and takes a couple deep breaths.

"...I don't want you to think worst of me," Scrappy says quietly. Swoops makes a soft encouraging noise, and pats his side.

"Jesus Christ," Parse replies. Then he stops again, and takes another long breath.

Scrappy shifts uncomfortably on the bed, pressing back further against Swoops. Swoops gives him another brief squeeze.

"I told him I was sure you wouldn't start thinking less of him, or hate him, if you heard some of the stuff he tells me," Swoops says to Parse. "But if you wanna make him feel better, I'm pretty sure that'll mean more comin' from you."

"Holy shit," Parse mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.

He drops his hand and looks Scrappy in the eyes. "Scraps. Dimitri. Fuck no. I would never think that."

Scrappy's mouth is going dry. He swallows, but it doesn't really help.

He wants to believe Parse. He wants to believe both of them, but....

". . . You and Swoops always say I'm a good person," Scrappy says quietly. "I'm not."

Parse stares at him for a long moment, and then looks past Scrappy's shoulder at Swoops.

"I'm still workin' on getting him to believe it," Swoops replies.

Parse exhales and shakes his head.

"Scraps, man," Parse tells him. "I don't think you're a bad person. Not for hitting Fearn, not for any of that stuff. Gettin' pissed off doesn't make you bad."

Scrappy shakes his head. "But--"

"I've been the kinda guy who hurt somebody else and didn't wanna take responsibility for my shit," Parse says seriously. Scrappy looks back up at him. "You aren't like that. If you were, you'd be blaming Fearn. Not regretting what you did. Or wanting to be better, so you don't do it again."

Parse tells him sincerely, "You're a good person, Dima.

"I don't think bad of you because've the stuff you told Jeff. Fuck, man," Parse adds, pushing his hair back from his forehead. "If anything, I can't believe how fuckin' _hard_ you work on bein' a good guy. You always gotta go a hundred and twenty percent on everything, Scraps? Now I gotta work harder to keep up."

Scrappy swallows harder, and then rubs his arm over his eyes. Swoops starts running a hand along his side again.

"Good thing I love competition, I guess," Parse adds casually, and Scrappy has to grin briefly despite everything.

"And I thought understatements were a Canadian thing," Swoops says dryly. "You considering dual citizenship now, Parse? Be worth it to watch America straight up riot."

"Way to kill the mood, Troy," Parse drawls.

"You're welcome," Swoops tells him, deadpan. Scrappy laughs out loud.  
  
  
Scrappy gave up on coming a while back, but after a little longer he convinces Parse to accept it as well.

Scrappy ends up lying on his side by the edge of the bed, watching as Swoops lets Parse manhandle him in-between the two of them before fucking Swoops between his thighs. Scrappy and Parse both hold on a little too tight to Swoops, until Swoops eventually manages to say, "If this is how I die, no regrets, but it'd be cool to breathe again guys."

Parse just snorts. Scrappy keeps his other hand tight around Swoops' dick, letting Swoops fuck into it, but he loosens his grip on Swoops's waist. A little.

Scrappy likes how focused Parse gets when he's having sex, and he likes the way that Swoops has his forehead pressed against Scrappy's shoulder, breathing roughly as he gets closer to coming. Both things are really nice; but Scrappy still aches too much to want to get off himself. Swoops and Parse both look really good, but Scrappy's dick has gotten pretty soft again by the time both of them have come.

So instead he tucks an arm underneath Swoops's neck, and curls his other arm over both Swoops' and Parse's sides. Scrappy rests his hand on the small of Parse's back, where Parse's spinal nerve ward is, and falls asleep to the feeling of Swoops' breath evening out against his chest.

*

Scrappy wakes up later because Swoops is snoring into his chest. Parse is sitting up in the bed, holding his phone and staring down at Swoops with an unreadable look on his face.

"Hey," Scrappy says drowsily, and Parse jolts. Swoops shifts with a mumbled noise, but he doesn't wake up.

"...Hey," Parse says. He tilts his phone away, hiding the screen. "Go on back to sleep, Scraps."

"GM call?" Scrappy asks. Why is Parse sitting up awake?

"Nah, not yet," Parse says. His voice is low enough that Swoops doesn't stir. "They'll get back to us soon."

Something feels off. Scrappy props himself up slightly and asks, "You okay?"

"Yeah," Parse says; but he presses his phone to his chest, hiding the screen more. "I'm good. Don't worry 'bout anything."

Something definitely feels off.

. . . But it's been a long, long day. It's been a long day since he hit Fearn in yesterday's game. Scrappy settles back down on the mattress and drifts off to sleep again before he can figure out what feels weird.

*

The curse team still hasn't called by the time they all wake up. Swoops calls the GM, but Greg says he doesn't have any new information. Parse spends a while texting on his phone, distracted.

They end up watching TV. Parse sprawls out on the sofa next to Swoops, taking up enough room that Scrappy has to sit down in the armchair.

Scrappy's kind of disappointed. He wanted to sit next to Swoops too, even if it would've been hard to fit all three of them on the two-seater couch.

But he lets it go. Maybe that's part of Swoops's and Parse's thing they do, after sex.

*

It's late enough that they're starting to debate what to order for dinner when the GM finally calls.

Greg asks Swoops to come over to the clubhouse. He says the curse team's resolved the situation, and they want to talk to him. Parse drives them over there.

It's weird to go to the clubhouse so late. Scrappy's used to driving away from the arena at night, not to be heading toward their practice space. Vegas is lit up, and the Strip's glowing bright against the dim sky off to the east. The familiar route looks weird with the streetlights shadowing the road.

A car shifts into their lane in front of them, and a second later Parse claps his hands once.

In the backseat, Swoops drawls, "This is how you're gonna die, Parse.

"Everybody thinks it's gonna be 'Oh, he was a rat one time too many,' or you're gonna mouth off to the wrong guy on the wrong day," Swoops continues, when Parse doesn't say anything. "But nah, it's gonna be because you always gotta make a bet with yourself whether somebody's gonna cut you off. And then you _take your hands off the wheel_ to high-five yourself if you got it right. It's gonna end bad eventually, Parser."

Parse is silent for another long moment, before flipping on the turn signal. He lifts his shoulder in a shrug. "Wouldn't wanna be predictable."

Swoops just sighs theatrically. Parse half-smiles; but it doesn't look right.

"You sure you're okay?" Scrappy asks him. Swoops sits up slightly and looks at Parse for real.

"...Yeah," Parse says. "Just. Long day."

"No shit," Swoops agrees, slumping back in his seat. "I'm suin' this asshole for everything. How long's it take to trace back curses?"

"Dunno," Parse says. "Probably depends on how well they covered their tracks. How much they thought it could fool everybody that knows you."

Swoops grunts and rubs his face.

*

Parse walks between Scrappy and Swoops as they head through the Aces' clubhouse and upstairs to the GM's office.

Greg has a bunch of chairs pulled up to his desk. Ms. Dania, the head of the curse team that the Aces have a contract with, is sitting in one of them. The imposter is sitting next to her.

Scrappy hesitates in the doorway, caught in the surreal moment of seeing Swoops--not-Swoops--sitting in front of him and also seeing Swoops in his peripheral vision, standing on the other side of Parse. He knew this was a messed up curse, but it hits him even more viscerally now.

Parse puts a hand on Swoops's back and pushes him toward the farthest chair on the other side. Swoops stumbles slightly but then goes, staring at the imposter the whole time.

The imposter isn't looking at the real Swoops. He's staring at Parse, looking...worried? And kind of sad? He really looks like the real Swoops.

This is such a messed up curse.

Parse sits down next to Swoops, so the only chair left open is the one next to the imposter. Scrappy starts toward it, and then hesitates again. Finally, he just stands behind it, near Parse, and pushes his hands into his pockets.

The imposter twists around to study him for a moment. Scrappy doesn't look at him.

Finally, the imposter exhales slowly and looks back at Parse. "You didn't tell them, did you."

"What?" Swoops asks, aggressively. Really, really aggressively. Scrappy sets his feet and pulls his hands out of his pockets reflexively. Swoops is tensed up and sitting on the edge of his chair, like he's holding himself back from taking a swing at the imposter.

Scrappy knew that Swoops was pissed off about this curse. It bled into the way he talked about the person who cursed him a couple times, even when Swoops was trying to be calm for Scrappy's sake. But he didn't realize Swoops was this angry.

Scrappy guesses it makes sense. It's weird to see two Swoops; but it's probably way worse for Swoops to see a curse-clone of himself.

"Wasn't a good time," Parse replies with a short shrug.

"Parse," the imposter says, resigned.

"What the hell?" Swoops asks, confused. "What's going on?"

"--Do you know why you're here?" Ms. Dania asks.

"...I thought to deal with it," Swoops says, gesturing sharply at the imposter. "What's going on?"

"Yeah," Scrappy adds. "I don't understand."

"Swoops got cursed some time this morning," Parse says. He's not looking at either of them. "It got carried into the dressing room somehow. It took at some point between when you and the real Swoops left for his house, and when I went in and ran into that Swoops," Parse finishes, nodding his head at Swoops.

"--What the _fuck_, Kent?" Swoops demands, horrified.

"No," Scrappy says. How did this get so mixed up? "We were driving to Swoops' place, and I got stuck at a red light. When I got to his house, the imposter was there."

Parse shakes his head.

"This Swoops was already with me by then, Scrappy," he says. Parse's voice is still pretty calm, but his knuckles are white where he's gripping the arms of his chair. "You left the sauna with the real Jeff. And you were in the dressing room with him, until you guys went to the garage to drive to his place. Right?"

. . . Yeah.

Scrappy was walking with him until Swoops got in his car. Scrappy's was parked two over; he heard Swoops starting his car while he was putting on his seatbelt.

"_What the fuck_," Swoops--the Swoops sitting next to Parse--repeats, pushing his chair back and twisting around to stare at Parse. "No, Scrappy left and I stay--"

That Swoops stops abruptly, and starts to look panicked.

"I left with Scrappy," the Swoops sitting closer to Scrappy says. "I was with him pretty much the whole time, because--" He cuts off there and shrugs, but he looks at the Swoops sitting by Parse steadily as he says, "You know. He was with me until he got you guys' texts."

Scrappy pulls out the chair he's standing behind and sits down. He feels shaky.

"You said somebody'd pranked you and took your clothes," Parse says to the Swoops by him. "Because Jeff'd already changed and left with Scraps."

"No," that Swoops--the curse-Swoops?--says, shaking his head hard. "I'm not some kind of, of fuckin'--just because somebody _pranked_ me."

"We got dressed while Scrappy was shaving," Swoops says quietly. "Remember?"

"You did," Scrappy says, thinking back. Was it just this morning? It feels so long ago. "Except for a shoe."

The curse-Swoops is pale. "No, I-- I...."

"If I hadn't said I'd drive, you woulda realized your car was gone," Parse continues. "Jeff forgot his phone, but he didn't want to interrupt--uh, lunch. To go back and get it."

"That's--if I have my phone, maybe _he's_ the fake," curse-Swoops says. "That's too convenient!"

"Where're your keys?" Parse asks, finally looking over at curse-Swoops.

Curse-Swoops slaps his pocket reflexively, and then goes still.

Swoops pulls his keys out of his pocket. "I drove home, and let Scrappy into my house. Because they were in my pocket when I got dressed."

"Fuck you," curse-Swoops says, shaking. "That doesn't prove anything. Whoever took my clothes, you could've gotten 'em when you got them back."

_They weren't gone_, Scrappy thinks; but he can't force the words out. Swoops's clothes were sitting folded in his locker when they came into the change room, in the same place he left them before practice.

"We asked Dimitri to come to my place for lunch," Swoops replies. He doesn't look angry or freaked out, not like curse-Swoops; he just looks tired, and pitying. "He said yes. So why would you stay behind in the dressing room, after he left?"

"Because--" curse-Swoops fumbles. He shoves a hand over his hair. "Because--I had to.... I had to--get dressed?"

"Don't you remember looking at him in the mirror?" Swoops asks. "We were already dressed. I was already wearing my clothes."

"--_No_," curse-Swoops says, shaking his head hard again before looking at Parse. "Kent, please--"

"You're not Jeff," Parse says harshly. "You left with me, and then I helped you get Scraps away--

"I fucked up," Parse bites out, gripping the chair's arms tighter. "Your story didn't add up, I shoulda fuckin' realized--"

"Don't do that, Parse," Swoops interrupts. "It's not your fault."

"**No**! _Dima_," curse-Swoops says desperately, leaning forward. Scrappy flinches back into his chair. "Dima, **please**. I'm _not fake_."

"You aren't," Ms. Dania says firmly, pushing out of her chair and coming over to curse-Swoops. He stares up at her, eyes still wide. "You're both 'real,' technically. You have all of his memories, all his habits, everything. You're indistinguishable."

"Yeah, 'cause they're _mine!_" curse-Swoops retorts. "I'm not--I just stayed back because.... I'm **me**!"

"Yes," Ms. Dania tells him sympathetically, laying a hand on his shoulder. Curse-Swoops flinches away. "You're exactly the same, except for where your memories began to diverge because the two of you went different ways. But you didn't exist until this morning."

"I did," curse-Swoops insists. His voice cracks. "I'm real."

Parse just keeps staring at the GM's desk, tense and still. Swoops looks kind of pale himself now. Scrappy reaches over and squeezes his forearm hard.

Swoops shivers and says, almost inaudibly, "Thanks."

"Fuck," curse-Swoops says, and his voice breaks again in despair. It's the worst sound Scrappy's ever heard. Curse-Swoops braces his elbows on his thighs and hides his face in his hands, shaking harder. "I'm real."

Ms. Dania rubs his shoulder. "You are," she agrees. "That's why this kind of curse is so vicious. You're both really Jeff Troy.

"But you can't stay separate," she continues. "It'll end up killing both of you soon. We have to put you back together, now."

Curse-Swoops shudders. Scrappy squeezes Swoops's arm again, harder.

"It's okay," Swoops tells him, quiet enough that Scrappy almost misses the shakiness in his voice. ". . . It'll be okay."

*

Ms. Dania takes Swoops and curse-Swoops away to the curse team's office. She doesn't explain what "putting them back together" means or tell them what it'll do to Swoops.

Greg has Scrappy and Parse go over what happened with the curse-Swoops that afternoon. Scrappy stays quiet and lets Parse answer most of the questions, since Parse is a better liar.

Obviously.

But Scrappy makes himself brush that thought away pretty soon. Parse's always had a bad habit of trying to take on too many burdens to spare the people he likes, and getting named the Aces' captain so young only made him worse.

He's frustrated that Parse didn't trust him enough to tell him that they had the curse-Swoops after Parse figured out what was wrong, but it's hard to hang onto that feeling. He's too worried about Swoops.

The GM lets them go after a while so he can meet with the head coach. Whatever the curse team has to do to cleanse Swoops, it's apparently going to knock him off the roster for a couple games.

Parse drives Scrappy back to his condo to pick up his car. Halfway there, Scrappy asks, "Can we go to Swoops's instead?"

Parse glances over at him, before focusing back on the road.

". . . He may not want us there," he says.

"Okay," Scrappy agrees. "But...I wouldn't wanna be alone. If he wants to be, okay. But I don't want him to feel like he is. You know?" he asks.

Parse is silent for another moment. And then he flips on his blinker, and starts moving over to the left lane. "Yeah."

Parse makes a u-turn at the next light and heads for Swoops' house.  
  
  
Scrappy texts Swoops while they're on the highway to Summerlin. _Let me or Parse know when you're out, okay?_

About an hour later, Scrappy gets a reply. _I'm ok, gonna go home and sleep_

Scrappy calls him.

Swoops answers after a couple rings. He sounds hoarse, and drained. "Hey, Scraps."

"Hey," Scrappy says. Over at the sink, Parse stops trying to scrub dried-up protein shake out of the blender and comes over. "You want a ride?"

"I got a taxi comin'," Swoops says. "I'm not supposed to drive for...." Something rustles in the background. "Couple days."

"He alright?" Parse asks.

Oh, yeah. Scrappy hits speaker. "You okay?"

"Got a fuckin' splittin' headache, and my whole body hurts," Swoops says, sounding like he's trying to be wry but he's too tired to pull it off. "Coulda been worse, I guess. Apparently if that douchebag'd fucked up the curse, I woulda died, so. Perspective."

Scrappy grips his phone tight. "What?"

Parse eases the phone out of his fist. Scrappy lets him, and clenches the edge of the counter instead.

"Hey, man," Parse says. "Sure you don't want a ride?"

"Hey, Parse," Swoops says. "Nah. It'll be fine."

"...Alright," Parse agrees. "We're at your place. That okay? We can split if you want."

For a long moment, Swoops doesn't answer.

Then they hear a stifled, choked noise. Parse frowns hard and turns the sound on Scrappy's phone up all the way. Scrappy pushes away from the counter and shifts closer to Parse. "Hey. Swoops?"

"Fuck," Swoops says, before choking down another sob. "God_dammit_."

"Jeff, please let me pick you up," Parse asks. "I'm really fuckin' worried, man."

"_Fuck_," Swoops manages. It sounds like he blows his nose. ". . . Yeah. Thanks, Kent."

Swoops forces a laugh. "I'm prolly gonna cry all over your upholstery. Apparently I'm gonna be an emotional shitshow until my neurons stabilize or fuckin' whatever."

"'S fine," Parse says. "You still at the curse office?"

"Yeah," Swoops says. "Yeah, here."

"Alright," Parse agrees. "We'll be there soon."

*

The curse team gave Swoops a bunch of paperwork and follow-up instructions after they released him. Parse reads through the papers while Scrappy hunts down saltines and chicken broth in Swoops' disorganized mess of a pantry. Swoops'd fallen asleep on the couch.

"How bad is it?" Scrappy asks. He tried to read the follow-up papers with Parse at first, but there was too much medical and curse jargon in them.

"Never actually hated somebody so much I wanted to kill them," Parse says coolly. "That's new."

Scrappy pauses in the middle of opening the packet of saltines and looks over. ". . . It really could've killed him?"

"Yeah," Parse says, turning back a couple pages in the paperwork. "Sounds like it. 'High fatality risk.' 'Criminal-level curse.' Jesus Christ," Parse says, gripping the paper so tight it dents. "I'm gonna destroy their fuckin' life."

Scrappy puts down the crackers before he accidentally crushes them all, and braces his hands on the countertop and takes a lot of steadying breaths.

Parse sets the papers down and comes over, and rubs his back.

"It's all right," he promises. "It didn't happen. He's alive. The recovery's just the usual curse stuff. It'll be a pain in the ass for a week, but he's gonna be fine, Scraps."

"...Okay," Scrappy makes himself say.

Parse wouldn't lie to him about this. Not something this important.

Scrappy leaves the crackers for later, once his hands have stopped shaking from adrenaline. He goes to heat up the broth instead.  
  
  
Swoops wakes up after a while. He manages to get down a bowl of broth and some saltines, and then he throws it all up in the bathroom off the laundry room, since that one was closest. Scrappy rubs his back while Parse gets water and gatorade.

"It gets better," Parse promises. Swoops is sitting on the floor and leaning back against Scrappy's legs as Scrappy holds a cold washcloth against his throat. "The first twelve hours after you're cleansed are the fuckin' pits, but after that it's just kinda like havin' the flu for a few days."

"Yeah," Scrappy agrees. He doesn't really remember how he felt after getting cleansed, that time he was cursed--it was so many years ago--but what Parse said sounds right.

Swoops makes a 'blurg' noise and carefully sips some water.

Parse shrugs. "Once you go back for that follow-up and get warded, you'll be good," he says, because Swoops told them he made an appointment to get a cranial ward as soon as he's stabilized enough for the curse specialist to do it. "It gets better."

"Holy shit," Swoops rasps. "Next time we play Seattle, I'm gonna score twelve goals to spite this motherfucker."

"Whole team'll assist," Parse agrees, half-smiling. "Even the goalie."

"Damn right," Swoops mutters. "Fuck that city."

"That's the spirit," Parse says, patting his shoulder.

"...Oh no," Swoops groans. "I've sunk to your level."

"Welcome to the moral gutter," Parse grins.

Swoops laughs, and then claps a hand over his mouth. "Oh shit. Don't make me barf again."

Parse just pats his shoulder again, gentler this time. Scrappy flips the washcloth over to the cooler side.

*

They sleep downstairs, in their bedroom, with Swoops between Scrappy and Parse.

Swoops doesn't sleep well. He keeps waking up from bad dreams, shaking and breathing hard and sweating.

Parse is a pretty deep sleeper, especially when exhaustion knocks him out. So by the fourth time Swoops startles awake, Parse sleeps through it.

Scrappy's a light sleeper, so he wakes up every time. It's okay. He's tired, but he'd rather be awake and there with Swoops than leave Swoops feeling alone.

"Bathroom?" Scrappy mumbles. Swoops has only thrown up once more tonight--last night? this morning?--but he's been nauseous enough that he's had to get up a few times just in case.

"'M alright," Swoops says. He grips Scrappy's arm around his waist tight, and then shifts closer to Parse. Scrappy moves with him; Parse grunts, but doesn't wake up.

"You sure?" Scrappy asks, because Swoops is shaking again. Scrappy sits up enough to fumble for one of the extra blankets they tossed onto the bed and pull it over Swoops.

"...My head hurts so fuckin' much," Swoops admits quietly.

Scrappy rubs his face and tries to wake up more. "Like a concussion?" Maybe they should call the team doctor. What time is it?

"Nah, like...."

Swoops shifts around to face him. He keeps an arm over Parse's chest as he does, even though the angle's weird now. Parse mumbles something incoherent and rolls onto his side, shoving his face into the pillow.

"I was watchin' the garage security footage with Greg and Dania, the same time I was at the hotel with you," Swoops says. "It's like...some kinda garbled nightmare. They both happened. But it doesn't feel real."

Scrappy doesn't know how to help Swoops with that, any more than he knew how to help him when Swoops woke up crying earlier and kept mumbling "I'm real" until he finally woke up more and calmed down. All he could think to do was hold Swoops, while Parse did the same and told him "It's all right, Jeff" over and over.

So Scrappy does that again now, shifting as close to Swoops as he can get. "It was," he says. "It's alright, Jeff. You're real."

"--Fuck." Swoops shudders.

He pulls his arm away from Parse and rubs his eyes.

". . . I remember everything he did," Swoops says hoarsely. "Thought. Felt. Right up to the end. And then he just.... Didn't exist any more." He shudders again. "_Fuck_."

Scrappy doesn't hate the person who cursed Swoops bad enough that he wants to kill them. But he does really want to punch them. A lot. He's pretty sure if he ever gets the chance to do it, he'll never feel guilty about it.

He hugs Swoops tighter, and bites down a hiss when Swoops's arm bumps into one of his bruises. Swoops freaked out pretty bad when he saw all the marks on Scrappy earlier while they were changing for bed, before his head started hurting so much that Parse made him drink more chicken broth so that Swoops could take another painkiller.

"You're here," Scrappy tells him. "We're here. It'll be okay."

". . . Yeah," Swoops says eventually. "...Yeah."  
  
  
After a while, Swoops rolls back over on his side to face Parse and drapes an arm over his hip.

Eventually, his breathing evens out again. But he never falls asleep deep enough to start snoring. Scrappy never thought he'd actually want to hear that.

He settles against Swoops's back, and tries to fall asleep again. He needs to get whatever sleep he can, before Swoops wakes up with another nightmare.

He's so tired. He doesn't know what to do to help Swoops.

He doesn't know what to think at all about the fact that it was the curse-Swoops who punished him. Who was the one in the bedroom with Scrappy and Parse. The one who did and said those things to Parse when they were having sex later.

All those thoughts feel so huge and overwhelming that Scrappy can't bring himself to even try thinking about them right now. Not yet.

Right now, he just needs to help Swoops get through the curse recovery, and to help the Aces win tomorrow's game. After that, they'll start figuring the rest out.

They've gotten through a lot of things. They'll get through this one, too.

It was still Jeff in there with him and Kent. Just...a different Jeff. But everything he did and said was what the real Jeff would have done. Probably. Because that Jeff was real too. Even if he was a curse. This is so confusing. Scrappy's so tired.

It'll be okay, eventually.

They'll get through it together. They've been doing that for years. They'll do it again.

Scrappy falls back asleep willing that to become the future.  
  
  


I hope I don't lose you.


End file.
